Position Vacant
by grannysknitting
Summary: What if all that palaver at the pool was Moriarty's way of offering Sherlock a job? How would he react? How would everyone else react? Eventual SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**Positions Vacant**** (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)**

A/N – the problem with the internet dying is that you can't get on the internet to tell people that the internet is dead…

A what if fic (yes, another one) where the whole incident at the pool is a very subtle job offer from Moriarty to Sherlock. How would the people around Sherlock react – and how would Sherlock react to them too?

Standalone from the one-shot series, the magic series and the murder of john watson story.

_**Eventual SLASH**_

**Disclaimer: se****ttings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Aftermath**

It was more difficult than Sherlock had expected to wake from the concussion he'd suffered at the pool. He spent several dark days – a total of six in all according to his brother and the date he finally noticed on the SkyNews channel – swimming in and out of consciousness in varying degrees of lucidity. Then there was the dislocated shoulder to contend with, as well as the bullet graze to the small of his back. He'd apparently dislocated his arm when he'd entered the water at such speed and angle as to make the fall – or rather the impact from where John had tackled him and the explosion had hurled him – similar to the effect of landing from a great height on a concrete surface. The bullet would have killed him – or paralysed him – had John not moved him when he did.

John had saved his life. That went without saying, which is why he became so very vexed with people who insisted on mentioning it time and again. Sally Donovan ended up on the receiving end of a very nice little rant that had her actually lose shades of colour by the end. Sherlock felt much better after that.

John was not conscious. He'd taken a bullet graze to the back of the head, another through his once wounded shoulder and one in the side that had caused all sorts of medical complications. Sherlock's flatmate was being kept in a medical coma in order to give his body time to heal and to keep him from feeling the pain that his wounds would surely impart. Sherlock disliked that John was being kept from him in this manner – there was no point visiting the man while he was unconscious, no matter that the thin genius' chest felt tight whenever he was away from John and the only cure seemed to be finding his way to John's room – but the consulting detective was not sociopathic enough to want his flatmate awake and in agony.

John would be no use to him if he couldn't think through the pain – or at least pay proper attention to Sherlock while he spoke. Or at least, that was what he told Sally Donovan in his diatribe.

At Lestrade's insistence and against Mycroft's wishes – which was mainly why he did it – Sherlock gave a full recounting of the incident at the pool with Moriarty, including a word-for-word repetition of their 'conversation' and as many of his observations of his enemy as he thought Lestrade would understand. Lestrade recorded the recount, transcribed it and then insisted on going over it in excruciating detail. Nothing Sherlock could say appeared to faze him and a part of the consulting detective welcomed the distraction from his wait for John to return to the land of the conscious. Only as small part, though: the rest of him was impatient, curt and sarcastic.

Four days after Sherlock woke, ten days after the pool incident, Moriarty's people delivered a recording of the confrontation between psychopath and sociopath. Lestrade informed Sherlock of its existence, but didn't show it to the other man until he tried to check out of the hospital against medical advice, setting the entire ward in uproar. Sherlock watched the people on the laptop moving and walking, taking in John's face and actions with the clarity of distance, as well as finally placing Moriarty's words into context.

He'd been offered a job. The worlds only consulting criminal wanted to work with him, not against him. His condescending dismissal of John, the sneer he'd spoken with… the subtle tones and phrases he'd used… If Sherlock wanted it, he could be working on an array of puzzles so much more intricate and advanced than those offered by the Yard or on his website. Sherlock would never be bored again.

Lestrade had also picked up on the job offer – as had Donovan. Anderson would have been told by Donovan – the man didn't do subtle at all, it was a disgrace really – and was no doubt in the midst of proclaiming 'I knew it' at the top of his lungs for all to hear. Donovan was probably singing harmony to her adulterous lover, but it was Lestrade's reaction that Sherlock noticed the most. His DI was more… reserved than before. Usually the Yarder presented a combination of exasperated parent and jaded colleague to Sherlock's many quirks and mannerisms. Now, there was a distinct level of caution to his responses – Sherlock got the impression that Lestrade was re-evaluating their working relationship.

They were waiting for him to take up the offer, that much was obvious. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't, if they were all going to be so obvious and tedious about it.

Then, the day after the delivery of the tape, John was woken from his coma. Sherlock insisted on being there and the staff were wary enough of him to know that trying to keep him away would result in havoc of a scale they didn't want to experience again. Confined to a wheelchair in the corner of the room, Sherlock watched very carefully as John was tested, checked and otherwise examined. It wasn't until his flatmate called his name that Sherlock came forward, leaving the wheelchair behind and perching on the edge of John's bed. He took hold of the hand that was reaching for him and squeezed it carefully, watching as the barely functioning doctor took in his sling, hospital issued pyjamas and tried to come up with a diagnosis.

"Very good, John," Sherlock offered the praise in his usual tones, knowing that John hated to be condescended to, "A dislocated shoulder and a small bullet graze are all that remains of our little adventure."

"Good," John wheezed, his voice hoarse from the breathing tube, "Mori… arty?"

"Sent a disc with a recording of our encounter at the pool to Scotland Yard," Sherlock reported, "Though that could have been done post mortem – some lieutenant completing instructions given days or weeks before. There was no body recovered from the pool in the location he'd been standing; his snipers all seem to have survived as well."

John nodded, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles in an absent minded sort of way that made Sherlock's chest feel quite good actually. Before he could begin dissecting the pool incident with John they were interrupted by other doctors, who insisted that John needed rest and quiet to recover. John gave Sherlock a querying look, offering to stay awake if his flatmate needed him; taking in the pallor of the man, the hitches in his breath and the sweat beading his upper lip, Sherlock shook his head and squeezed the hand he still held firmly.

"You need to recover quickly, John," Sherlock stated, "We've work to do."

John nodded and let his eyes close, his body slowly loosing all tension as he dropped back into sleep. Sherlock stayed where he was for almost an hour, only letting go once he was sure his flatmate was resting properly. He instructed the nurses to keep a close watch over his flatmate and allowed an orderly to put him back in the wheelchair and take him back to his room.

They both needed to recover if they were to establish Moriarty's status. Although Sherlock had once described his body as transport of his brain, he knew well enough that he could not solve cases if he was unable to move, to attend crime scenes and laboratories. This was one case where he'd have to wait a short while for his body to catch up with his brain.

That he was also waiting for John was less of an issue. John had just as much invested in this case as he did now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Three AM Musings**

Eight days after he woke, John was released from the hospital. The doctors weren't happy, but John was having none of it and insisted on leaving whether they signed him out or not. Sherlock was a silent observer in all of this – he knew better than to stick his two pence in when John was using _that_ voice – though he made several mental notes about the couch, the front room in general and the kitchen.

To Sherlock's surprise, Lestrade drove them home. He'd already come to take John's statement, with Sherlock a silent, glowering witness. The DI had barely said two words to Sherlock during the entire process, perhaps afraid that he'd alienate the sociopath and send him into Moriarty's arms. Sherlock was more interested in helping John endure the ride home: his wounds were tender and pulled uncomfortably with each movement he made and to top it all off the veteran was refusing to take the full dose of painkillers that his doctors had prescribed.

As Sherlock had suspected, John established himself on the couch, an appropriation of the front room that Sherlock actually endorsed. It meant that John would be in close proximity to Sherlock's work and reference materials and would therefore be able to pay proper attention to his flatmates work. Mrs Hudson also approved, but that was mainly to do with John's proximity to her and her mothering: Sherlock allowed it only so long as it didn't interfere with his own work.

He allowed John a full day to recover from leaving the hospital, using the time his flatmate dozed on the couch to gather his evidence, including a copy of the disc that Moriarty's people had sent to the Yard. At about three am, Sherlock curled himself into John's chair, the Union Jack pillow in his lap and watched his flatmates sleep. John was in some pain, as evidenced by the slight frown on his face and the still way he held his body. Sherlock didn't like John to be in pain – it made his chest tight.

It didn't help that he was unsure of John's reaction to Moriarty's offer. The people at the Yard seemed so sure that he was going to take it up that Sherlock felt almost disappointed. While he had never felt any desire to be considered something so mundane as a _friend_ to the Yarders, he certainly had hoped that they would at least accord him the courtesy of treating him as a _colleague_. This lack of trust was as frustrating as it was disappointing. They had known him longer than John had and so if Scotland Yard thought Sherlock was one step away from aligning himself with a master criminal, what would _John_ think? His flatmate had known him for a shorter amount of time, had been subjected to far more indignities and nuisances than the Yard ever had due mainly to simple proximity and had now been seriously injured by Sherlock's single focussed approach to Moriarty's Game.

Before he'd been kidnapped and strapped to a bomb, John had yelled at Sherlock about his attitude to the Game. John had been angry and disappointed at Sherlock's apparent disregard for the very human game pieces that Moriarty had coerced onto the board. John was a very warm, caring individual, who valued every life he came across – or did so until they proved to be a danger to others. Sherlock wasn't like that: people were data to him – or something he manipulated to get what he wanted. He couldn't bring himself to care about the minutiae of other people's daily lives – it just wasn't _relevant_. This difference of opinion had not been resolved, which made it hard to accept John's actions at the pool. He'd offered to _die_ for Sherlock and take Moriarty with him – Sherlock wasn't sure that he could trust that offer.

Why would John sacrifice himself for a man that he was angry with? For that matter why would he sacrifice himself for someone who was just a colleague come flatmate? Even after all this time, the denial of the term _friend_ rankled with Sherlock, though he'd done his best to push that feeling aside. It was irrational and irrelevant, but it _still_ popped into his head at odd moments, making him question John's reasons for staying at Baker Street and helping out with the Work. Then there was the Question Of Sarah. John gave all the signs of being attracted to, if not in love with, Sherlock Holmes. He gave none of those signs with Sarah, though he was certainly interested in having sex with her. Sherlock had attempted to nip in the bud any sexual attraction that John might have felt towards him, but it apparently hadn't worked. Sherlock was uncomfortable with his reaction to this – he shouldn't be pleased about John wanting him, should he? He'd never been interested in that sort of thing before – it seemed so disruptive and messy.

It seemed that he and John would need to discuss this situation together, before they could go on and discuss their response to Moriarty. It was bound to be fraught with emotions and distorted facts.

Sherlock was _not_ looking forward to that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**A ****Brotherly Betrayal**

Before the dreaded Talk could begin, there was a series of visitors to endure. The first was Sarah – boring, normal Sarah who came around to check if John was in Baker Street and demand to know why he hadn't answered his phone or her comments on his blog. Sherlock had informed Mrs Hudson where they were once he'd been coherent enough to do so, along with a request that the information be kept to herself. She had texted back that his brother had already told her that days ago and if any mad bombers came to Baker Street she'd be adding the damages to his rent.

Sarah went from indignant with John to cautiously concerned. Sherlock wasn't worth a moment of consideration, though she did make a show of trying to be nice to him once John stated very pointedly that his flatmate had been hurt too. Offers of bandage changing and general health checks were made and firmly rebuffed and Sherlock decided to remove himself from their front room in order to get John to stop making those stupid Significant Faces at him.

He didn't go too far though. He disliked being away from John. That he was listening to a private conversation didn't carry much weight with him at all. John knew him well enough to realise that Sherlock was probably still listening in.

"Look, John, maybe you should consider moving out of here," was the first sally by Boring Sarah and Sherlock rubbed his ribs gently while waiting for John's reply, "It's just that he's putting you in danger with no thought for your life outside of here. He's selfish, arrogant, manipulative and just… you could stay with me for a while, you know."

"I don't take charity," John's reply was cool, "Thank you for the offer, but no. And please don't speak about Sherlock like that – especially not in our home."

John was using a tone that Sherlock recognised, though interestingly enough it had never been aimed at him. His flatmate was furious with his guest, an emotion that made John retreat into icily formal politeness. John had never been mad enough at Sherlock to use that tone of voice on him in all their months of living together.

"John, can't you see…"

"I can see that as long as my friendship with Sherlock continues it will be a bone of contention between us," John interrupted. Sherlock's chest got tighter; rubbing didn't work and so he wrapped his arms around his ribcage protectively.

"As I intend to continue to be Sherlock's friend, to share in his work and his life, I would suggest that you either accept this, or leave. I do care about you, Sarah, but no one will ever come between Sherlock and myself," John paused for a moment, evidently reading the expression on Sarah's face. Sherlock hugged his ribs tighter, trying to keep his heart in his chest – at the moment it felt as if it was going to burst free, an oddly pleasant sensation.

"I should go, then," Sarah said stiffly, "Don't bother calling the surgery for more shifts."

"Very well," John sounded resigned, which Sherlock resented, and tired, which Sherlock fretted about. John was still not completely himself and needed to rest if he was to be of any use in the Conversation that Sherlock was planning to have with him. He scowled in resentment at Sarah's appalling timing and toyed with various petty revenges he could visit on her. Perhaps it was fortunate that John spoke again, distracting Sherlock from his thoughts:

"For what it is worth, I'm sorry it ended this way."

The only reply was the slamming of the door and Sarah's footsteps as she stomped down the stairs. Sherlock frowned and cast about for something that would cheer John up – he believed that breaking up with a girlfriend required some form of support from friends. John liked tea, and it would sooth and help him to rest, so Sherlock made a cuppa for them both and brought it into the front room, meeting John's weary gaze with his own.

"I'm sorry you had to hear her speak about you like that," John muttered, stretching his good hand up for the mug, "Though you could have gone to your room or down to Mrs Hudson to spare yourself that."

"You need care, remember? The doctors said so and I promised not to leave you alone," Sherlock sat on the floor beside the couch, leaning next to John's hip. John gave him a tired grin and kindly didn't point out that Sarah was a doctor and more than capable of dealing with any medical needs that John might have.

"I'm sorry she left you," Sherlock offered, staring very fixedly into his own tea mug. That was the done thing, wasn't it – to commiserate with the friend who'd broken up with his girlfriend.

"I'm not," John sighed, "She… didn't approve of me all that much. I think she wanted to… remake me in a way. You know – have a war veteran boyfriend that performed medicine under her command and was at her social beck and call. I should never have started dating her – it should have been about the work only."

"Why did you then?" Sherlock looked up, genuinely curious. He'd not understood the infatuation that John had brought back from his job interview, nor the way his flatmate had continued the relationship after that Chinese General had tried to kill them both.

"It's hard to explain, Sherlock," John sighed, meeting his eyes. There was something in his expression that Sherlock memorised, something that was speaking to Sherlock very clearly, though he did not understand it beyond the most visceral level.

"I got back from Afghanistan a complete wreck. I was useless, depressed… it felt very much like I'd abandoned my post in a time of need… irrational, but true, ok? Then I met you and suddenly, I was a person again. I had a role to play, even if it was just a small one. By the time I met Sarah, I was ready to be… loved I suppose, though we never got that far…"

"She was not a logical choice," Sherlock mused, "But I suppose it can't be helped – your logic is not the strongest I've ever met, John."

"No," John sighed, "But the logical choice was completely out of my reach, so I made do, which was totally unfair to Sarah."

Sherlock scowled and buried his face in his mug for a moment, wondering who it was that John really wanted to be with and why it made his chest tighten. He put his mug aside after a moment and looked John over, wondering if his friend was rested enough to have that conversation about the pool now. Before he could truly decide the door downstairs opened without fanfare and familiar footsteps trotted up their stairs.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, irritation rising to the fore. He needed some time alone with John, not time being annoyed by his elder brother.

"Hello Mycroft," John winked as the British Government pretended to respect their privacy by knocking before entering. Sherlock smirked at his flatmate and turned his head enough to look Mycroft over. He'd never noticed before how comfortable this patch of floor was and he was reluctant to get up just yet. Mycroft's disapproval of his seating choice was evident, though, which was another incentive to stay where he was.

"Good afternoon, Dr Watson. I trust you are recovering satisfactorily?" Mycroft helped himself to Sherlock's chair, his gaze flicking over John as if the man was a piece of data to be catalogued and discarded. Sherlock didn't like that at all and got up to sit in John's armchair, 'accidentally' kicking Mycroft on the ankle as he did so.

"I've something to discuss with you, Sherlock. Perhaps we should go elsewhere, to avoid disturbing Dr Watson," was Mycroft's only response.

"I can go…" John offered, already preparing to push himself up off the couch. Sherlock leapt back across the room and pushed him down gently, settling on the edge of the couch in an effort to restrain his flatmate without having to actually hold him down.

"Not at all, John. If Mycroft had anything that couldn't be said in front of you, he'd have kidnapped me a while ago. He forgets his manners frequently, unfortunately. It's one of the reasons Mummy was pleased he'd be taking a government posting – keep him out of the public eye and thus save the family from embarrassment," Sherlock delivered that last with an entirely straight face and was rewarded with an amused smirk from John, but more importantly, a relaxation of the muscles under his hands.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft scowled, then apparently changed his mind; as if Sherlock didn't know his brother well enough to know when he was putting on an act for the benefit of their company, "Very well. I wish to caution you against taking up the offer made by James Moriarty."

"What?" John spluttered and Sherlock's chest got tight again. He really had needed to have this discussion with John in private…

Mycroft was busily filling John in about Moriarty's little offer, using a supercilious tone on Sherlock's flatmate that neither one of them appreciated. When he had done, John shook his head and closed his eyes, turning his face towards the back of the couch. Sherlock's chest got even tighter for a moment, then John reached up quite naturally and covered one of Sherlock's hands with his own.

_Get rid of him_, the touch cried and Sherlock twined their fingers together in response. John would not talk this over in front of an audience – neither would Sherlock.

"I shall take your advice into account," Sherlock told his brother, "Now leave."

"I needn't remind you, little brother, that I am well within my rights to have you locked away for the good of the public," Mycroft murmured as he stood, perhaps seeing that it would be better to kidnap Sherlock at a later time. John's head whipped around, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Get out!" he snapped, shocking Mycroft immensely with his tone and vehemence, though Sherlock's older brother was more than capable of hiding that shock from the public, "Get out, right now!"

His flatmate was tensing up again, something that would cause him considerable pain, so Sherlock freed his hand and all but shoved his brother from the room.

"Once I would have expected better from you, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled, "Not any more, though. You'd best not come back, either."

"Sherlock, I merely wanted to ensure that you did not entertain any foolish fancy about joining Moriarty's little enterprise. I am aware that boredom leads you into reckless action, however I feel that in this case you would truly be better to risk the boredom than alleviate it…."

"_**Out!**_" John shouted from the front room, sounding even more incensed than before.

"Don't get up, John!" Sherlock shouted back, stern warning in his voice, "He's going! And as for you, dear brother, not another word!"

Mycroft marched out of the house with his head held high, ignoring the irate Mrs Hudson who glared at him from her doorway. Once the front door had slammed, Sherlock was back up the stairs in a flash, hurrying to John who was quite pale and slightly clammy. That meant pain, which made Sherlock irrationally angry.

"How dare he…" John fumed, but Sherlock shook his head, forbade any further speech and called upon Mrs Hudson's assistance to get some food and pain pills into John. It wasn't until the evening that colour started to return to dry cheeks and Sherlock dared to ask why John had been so angry: even then he timed the question carefully so as to catch the other man on the cusp of drowsing off, when his inhibitions would be at their lowest.

"He betrayed you Sherlock."

That simple answer kept Sherlock awake for quite some time that evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Avoidance Techniques**

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock insisted on assisting him with the physiotherapy exercises recommended by his doctors, which John did on the condition that Sherlock also complete his own, followed by a shower, shave and dressings change. These simple activities took the greater part of the morning and so exhausted John that he drifted off to sleep before lunch, resting on the couch which Sherlock had refreshed with clean linen on the pillows and new blankets. Mrs Hudson collected those John had been using with the intention of laundering them, which meant that Sherlock had some time to himself to contemplate the pending Conversation.

He started researching job opportunities for John instead. Although he would be happy to pay John's portion of the rent – technically he didn't _need_ a flatmate, but had been desirous of company provided it was the right sort – he knew that his flatmate would not be happy with the idea of accepting charity from Sherlock and would thus need a job.

Sherlock had several criteria for any work that John was to undertake. Firstly, it should pay enough for John to stay in Baker Street, but not so much that he decided to move out and live in his own flat. Secondly, it needed to offer the option of John choosing his own hours to some degree – shift work at the surgery had been ideal in a way, because John could tailor his workloads to the caseload, picking up more shifts when there was less of Sherlock's work and so on. Thirdly, the work needed to be of a variety that would interest John, because his flatmate disliked being bored as much as Sherlock did, though he was better about distracting himself from the situation.

Sherlock looked through several extensive websites, evaluating the jobs market for someone with John's skill set and then narrowing down his choices based on his own criteria. Once he identified three different jobs that John was qualified to do and would suit their lifestyle, Sherlock emailed a cover letter and John's resume to the various organisations and then spent a few minutes making the appropriate notes for John to review.

Pleased that he'd sorted out John's employment status, Sherlock spent a few minutes going over his own website, looking for cases that had points of interest. Three different ones stood out among the others and he spent a few pleasurable hours while John snoozed on the couch, researching, thinking and solving. When John finally woke to a late lunch, Sherlock was able to proudly announce that he'd solved two cases already, was working on a third and had put the wheels in motion to find John a new job.

His flatmate seemed a little dazed by this announcement, but sat up with Sherlock's assistance and listened closely as the consulting detective expounded on the two cases he'd solved: outlining his methods and conclusions in detail. The third, as yet unsolved case was also discussed, with John making several quite good comments that allowed Sherlock to discard or expand his own lines of inquiry. Mrs Hudson had brought them both soup and toast, which they'd finished while working, and Sherlock took the empty things into the kitchen to clean them while John shuffled slowly to the bathroom to take care of natures call.

"This is working very well, John, much better than the hospital would have," Sherlock gave his flatmate a pleased smile as they resumed their places in the front room.

"Yeah, I hate being in hospital," John grunted as he sat down once more, waving Sherlock's assistance off. That was a rather alarming statement, which caused Sherlock to frown.

"Oh, had I known that I would not have applied to the position at St Thomas' – they need a locum in their emergency room who can also work in day surgery," Sherlock frowned, "Though I must say, it does seem odd for a doctor to dislike hospitals."

"I hate being a _patient_ in hospital," John clarified, "Perhaps you should tell me which jobs you've applied for in my name."

Sherlock sighed and put aside his research for a moment to come and sit beside John on the couch, the notes he'd taken in his hand.

"Well, as I said, there was the position at St Thomas'," Sherlock began, "The pay is better than at the surgery and I thought the variety of patients would appeal to you. Also, the shift work is for a set number of hours a week, but not a set shift, so you can schedule it around my cases."

"I see," John's voice was neutral, no doubt because he wished to see all of his options before making up his mind.

"The next position is another surgery – though it is a little further away from Baker Street than the last one. You'd be working under very much the same conditions as before, but I believe that this surgery also offers a home care service, which means that some of your patients would require you to travel to them. I thought you'd perhaps enjoy the novelty of performing rounds in the community," Sherlock handed the second set of details over, watching John read them as carefully as he had the first set. Sherlock approved of this, because he didn't want John rushing into something that he'd regret again. Should his flatmate be reckless enough to attempt another workplace romance, Sherlock would be sure to remind him how the last one ended.

"The last position is quite different. They're looking for another coroner, one to work on a part time basis, with the understanding that the successful applicant may be called upon to work longer hours on an 'emergency' basis. I thought that as we are often involved with murder investigations, it might be an interesting position for you," Sherlock passed the last of the notes over, "You're required to have five years of medical experience only and to be a doctor of good standing with the BMC, so that's in order."

"Yes," John murmured. Sherlock frowned a little. He hadn't been expecting John to gush at him or anything, but a little enthusiasm would be appropriate here. Unless…

"Are you in pain again?" Sherlock reached out to test John's temperature, concerned that an infection may have crept in to take hold despite the intravenous antibiotic course that John had completed and the follow up medications he was taking on schedule under Sherlock's close supervision.

"No, Sherlock, it's not that," John assured him, peeling his hand away and keeping hold of it. Sherlock stared down at their twined fingers in surprise. That felt _good_, in a way that he had never expected.

"What is it then? Obviously I can't guarantee you'll get all of these jobs, but I had thought that _one_ of them would suit you," Sherlock stated, most of his mind unexpectedly held captive by the sensation of John gently holding his hand.

"It's just… I hadn't thought about a job just yet," John sighed, "I only just lost my last one."

"I know," Sherlock reminded him, still staring at their hands and his fingers which were slowly curling more firmly around John's, apparently of their own volition, "I was here when you did, remember? I felt it would be best for you if I did the initial research: obviously the work you take up will also impact upon mine to some degree."

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock watched his fingers slide and grip rhythmically in John's, tugging a little just to get his flatmate to hold on tighter. This was _fascinating_, why hadn't he known how good John's hand felt in his? What else would feel like this?

"Sherlock, are you saying that I'm a part of your work now? Not just a sometime accessory and alibi?" John's voice sounded amused and when Sherlock looked up reluctantly he realised his flatmate was smiling at him in an indulgent fashion.

"Of course you're part of my work. You're my partner in this agency, John: do keep up," Sherlock sighed, "Why do I like holding your hand?"

"I could not begin to venture a theory about that," John replied, "There are so many areas to choose from. I take it that hand holding didn't occur often on your previous dates?"

"No," Sherlock replied in a repressive tone, not wanting to get into the whole 'Sherlock's sexual exploits in Uni' discussion. John, as always, picked that subtext up brilliantly and let the matter drop, returning his attention to the notes he'd spread upon his lap. Sherlock went back to playing with their hands, curious about the different touches he could experience and their affect on his pulse and skin. When it all became a bit overwhelming he forced his fingers to be still, leaving them in John's loosened grip.

"Thank you for this, Sherlock," John said quietly then, perhaps sensing that Sherlock needed a different sort of distraction now, "It was very… well researched."

Sherlock beamed and got up off the couch to make them both some tea. He had noted that John liked to have a cup at this time of the day if they were home. He switched on the telly on the way past, tuning it to a show he knew John watched now and then.

As he put water in the kettle, Sherlock felt that he had done something Good.

Now all he had to do was weather the coming Conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Conversation**

Once tea and telly was over it was time to prepare food – or at least to exploit a delivery boy and order Chinese from the place around the corner. With food came pain pills, which made John prone to long, slow blinks and the odd muttered complaint under his breath. Sherlock decided that John had spent enough time in the front room on the couch and decreed that his flatmate spend the night in an actual bed. He knew that moving John to said bed would take the edge off the pain pills, which would mean he was more coherent for the Conversation to come.

Sherlock bribed Mrs Hudson to change the sheets in his bed while he fed John, helped him to the bathroom to change his dressings and get him ready for bed: which he assisted his flatmate to quite sternly, settling onto the other side of the double bed once John was reclining comfortably.

"You've had something on your mind, Sherlock," John prompted once he'd caught his breath a bit, "Perhaps you should tell me."

Sherlock caught John's hand in his again and twined their fingers once more. John moved his arm obligingly, making sure they were both comfortable. This was one of his more appealing habits, his desire to ensure the comfort of others.

"That is hardly an incredible deduction, John," Sherlock muttered, "After Mycroft's little visit…"

"I know," John interrupted, which usually made Sherlock snarl, "I also know you, though. The whole job research thing? That was you trying to avoid the issue, just as you will now if you get up and leave, so _stop_ tugging on my hand. You're not a toddler, Sherlock, but I _will_ smack your bum if you insist on acting like one…"

Sherlock subsided against the pillows and glared, but when John made a tsking noise he sighed and gave in. John was cleverer than him when it came to emotions: Sherlock knew himself well enough to know that it was emotions that were muddling his thinking now.

"Moriarty offered me a job, basically, at the pool," Sherlock sulked, rolling John's fingers gently in his, "All that double talk and not so witty repartee was his way of enlisting me."

"I see," John nodded, "Why is this a problem?"

Sherlock forgot himself enough to actually gape at his flatmate, who raised both eyebrows in that 'what?' look that was so universal. That look covered a wide variety of situations, from medical to personal.

"Isn't it obvious? A _criminal_ has offered _me_ a job!"

"And… that's a problem because you're above all this sort of thing? You can only be offered work by people who _aren't_ criminals?" John frowned, "Is this one of those times when we're talking about something else entirely?"

"John. A criminal, who almost killed you and has certainly killed scores of people that I care nothing for, has tendered to me an offer to enter into full time employment with him," Sherlock stated clearly. John looked him over closely, examining his face as if looking for clues.

"No, sorry, I'm not following you," he sighed and Sherlock groaned, rolling to bury his face in John's chest in frustration. He promptly lost all interest in the Conversation they were apparently failing to have as he realised that not only did John smell so very good, he was warm as well. Sherlock could feel his _heartbeat_ under his cheek, a sensation that was not only unprecedented but alarmingly soothing. Sherlock promptly gave up on the Conversation and concentrated on cataloguing the sounds and smells he was currently immersed in. Things only got better when John freed his hand from Sherlock's grip and then ran the fingers of said hand lightly over Sherlock's curls. The light, rhythmic touch was better than any chemical stimulation that Sherlock had ever experienced – and he'd tried a few things in his day.

After what seemed to be a short eternity of perfect comfort John made a noise that indicated some sort of epiphany and tugged at Sherlock's hair until the thin genius twisted to look at him.

"It's not that he offered you a _job_, it's that he _offered _you a job," John nodded, "He offered you something that would be endlessly engrossing with a dash of danger on the side. Have you responded yet?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, curious as to what John thought his response would be. John frowned in thought, his hand returning to Sherlock's curls where surgeon's fingers twined gently in black locks. They flexed idly, making Sherlock's scalp tingle in a very pleasant way.

"You've been pretty busy with me and your own recovery, so I'd say no, unless you did it while I was asleep. In fact, I'd say that you wanted to discuss the wording of the reply with me at the start of this conversation, though after my display of obtuseness I'd guess you're wondering why you ever did," John grinned, "I blame the pain pills."

"What's your excuse the rest of the _ouch!_ I'm attached to that!" Sherlock pouted for effect, but truthfully the tug on his hair had been quite light. John was giving him that warm look that never failed to exasperate and please Sherlock, so that was alright.

"Be nice, Sherlock, or I'll go to sleep," John warned him and Sherlock snorted in response. He tucked his head back onto John's chest, making an approving noise when John went back to stroking his hair. He had absolutely no idea why this felt so bloody good – so _vital_ – but now was not the time to pursue it.

"Well, obviously we want to word this in such a way that implies acceptance to Moriarty," John began and all the warmth leached out of Sherlock in a second. He had thought that John would be better than that, would understand him better than all the others who had assumed that he was going to chuck his consulting agency away and just become the monster that they all suspected he was. This was a betrayal that hurt even more than Mycroft's.

"That way we have a better chance of entrapping him for the Yard," John continued on evenly, "There's no chance we'll lure him out into the open for anything less than that: if you just turn him down he'll have no reason to risk further personal contact."

"What?" Sherlock gasped, looking up. John's face was calm and sincere, a look that faded quickly in response to Sherlock's own expression.

"Sherlock," John reproached, "Surely you didn't think that I… you did, didn't you? You thought that I'd be like _them_."

His flatmate sounded so disappointed that Sherlock sat up properly, twisting to sit facing John, capturing his good hand in both of Sherlock's and squeezing tightly.

"I misunderstood, that's all," Sherlock vowed, "I'm sorry, John. Don't be mad. It's just… the Yarders and Mycroft all seem to think that I'm a monster, barely held in check by them as they monitor me. You've argued with me over my lack of emotion for the victims before…"

"Yes, but I also listened to what you said. Dispassion is not the same as a complete lack of emotion, Sherlock. I know that," John offered a crooked smile, "You're not as sociopathic as you like people to think, Sherlock. You just choose not to allow emotions to cloud your thinking like the rest of us."

"And you base this diagnosis on what?" Sherlock asked, diverted for a moment from their main argument, "Some of the best professionals in the field endorse Mycroft's diagnosis."

"They haven't lived with you like I have," John replied, "Or do you think I don't know how you feel about me? You've spent the last week looking after me, you're trying to get me a job that will let me earn money but please myself at the same time, and you were so worried about this conversation that you put it off quite a few times."

"John, anyone else would say that I was selfish and controlling – that I only chose jobs that would leave you at my beck and call," Sherlock pointed out, "In fact some would say that those actions confirm the diagnosis of sociopath."

"Sherlock," John said in a very _gentle_ voice, "Even Moriarty recognised that you have a heart."

Sherlock blanched, his eyes dropping to the hand he held in both of his.

"You are my heart," Sherlock whispered, "But I don't understand it. I don't understand why you feel so good against me, why I trust you the way I do."

"That's not something I can explain either," John sighed, "All I can suggest is that you give it a bit of time. You'll figure it out eventually."

"John, do you love me?" Sherlock forced his eyes to John's face. His flatmate was flushed, uncomfortable, but nodded in reply. Evidently John enjoyed discussing emotions like this about as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring the heat that was flooding slowly through his body in a gentle wave. He unfolded himself and curled up against John once more, wrapping an arm carefully over his flatmate's torso and pressing his cheek to John's heart.

"That… I cannot describe what that means to me," Sherlock confessed into John's pyjama shirt. John snorted softly and rubbed his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades in a comforting motion.

"It's ok, you don't need to," his heart replied.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Breaking the News**

When they woke the next morning, it was raining: solid heavy rain, pouring down like stair rods dropping from the sky, darkening the flat and bathing everything in a watery grey colour. John moved stiffly around the kitchen, making toast and tea and insisting that Sherlock consume his part of the meal when it was ready.

As Sherlock was putting their plates and mugs in the sink, his stomach feeling warm and pleasant, there were footsteps on the stairs and he glanced at John, who was once again installed carefully on the couch.

"We have to tell her, Sherlock," John had obviously heard the footsteps as well, identifying their landlady as quickly as Sherlock had, "Things are going to get … weirder than normal. She deserves to know why – she needs to be warned."

"Alright," Sherlock sighed impatiently, "It would be an advantage not to have to fight on the home front as well."

John rolled his eyes at the allusion to war, but didn't protest. Mrs Hudson's knock was welcomed by his flatmates smile and invitation to sit with him on the couch. Sherlock leant on the door of the kitchen and watched the two of them chatter away at each other: these two boring human beings that had somehow become an essential part of his life. He could see the wisdom of John's words; he just wasn't comfortable with the thought of staging yet another Conversation so soon after the last one.

"Sherlock, dear?" Mrs Hudson's voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up, seeing two concerned faces on the couch. He pushed off the door and crossed the room in swift strides, settling on the couch as well, with John as a barrier between him and his landlady, "John said that you have something to tell me?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, relieved when John twined their fingers together gently, pulling Sherlock's hand into his lap to be more comfortable. Sherlock turned to sit sideways, catching the pleased glint in Martha's eye as John began rubbing their fingers together in a way that told Sherlock his flatmate had already noticed how much Sherlock enjoyed that touch.

"It's just that… I've been offered a job," Sherlock began, wincing at the awkwardness of that sentence: so easy to misunderstand, which was annoying…

"By a master criminal, no less," John added, his voice dry and fondly exasperated. Martha tutted under her breath, shaking her head.

"Only you, Sherlock," she patted the hand that John was holding fondly, "And I suppose you're going to need to pretend to take it up, if only to catch this criminal in the act?"

And that simple question there showed Sherlock why he had been so reluctant to tell Martha Hudson about this situation – Martha, who had already had one man in her life, someone she loved, turn out to be a monster. He hadn't wanted to deal with her thinking him a monster as well. Fortunately his Heart knew him better than anyone ever had: and knew too, that Martha Hudson didn't put up with his hi-jinx because she needed a tenant to help pay the upkeep of the house, or felt that she owed him a favour. Sherlock hadn't wanted to lose her good opinion of him and had apparently been worried that she would react just like the rest of his acquaintance so far. John didn't count in that tally – John was his Heart.

"Yes," Sherlock remembered to answer, his tone as neutral as always, "There will be danger involved, for us as well as you, and…"

"Scotland Yard and Sherlock's brother all seem to think that Sherlock will take the job offer for real. They've all indicated that they're expecting him to just throw everything away and start in on his career as a criminal," John spoke up now, his own tone disappointed and angry.

"Well," Martha sniffed indignantly, "We'll see about that! How dare they!"

"Exactly," John grinned, "We didn't want you to hear it from them, without hearing from us first. That way you've got the time to build some counter arguments."

"So this will be like… going undercover, dears? Like they do in the Bill?" Martha smiled and Sherlock bit back his usual response to daytime television references for her sake. After all, she had just shown that she trusted him more than his own flesh and blood did, "How can I help?"

"By not knowing anything about it," Sherlock wasn't about to risk her life at all, John would _kill_ him if anything happened to Martha Hudson, "Just go about your normal routine."

"Well, if you're certain," Martha sighed, "You will let me know if you change your minds… I can be your partner in crime as well as your landlady, dears."

"We're certain," John grinned, "And we will tell you if we change our minds, I promise."

"Good," she nodded, "I'm going to the shops later, dearie, I'll pick you up some staples while I'm out. And something to celebrate with, yes?"

"Yes," John nodded, though Sherlock wasn't sure what they were supposed to be celebrating. She kissed John on the cheek and Sherlock suffered to have his cheek kissed as well, slumping onto John's good shoulder carefully when she was downstairs once more. They sat in silence for a while, John dozing as his body recouped energy from the effort of making toast. Sherlock didn't like that something so simple was so draining at the moment and resolved to make sure that his first foray's into Moriarty's world were minor.

"What is she celebrating?" Sherlock asked when John's head jerked as he woke from the doze, his flatmate taking an awkward breath.

"Either she's happy that we're in a relationship together where you're comfortable holding my hand in public," John's voice was rough and Sherlock made a note to get him a drink of water, "Or she's happy that you trust her enough to confide in her about going under cover like this."

"It will be a very… demanding role," Sherlock cautioned his flatmate, pulling his fingers free reluctantly before getting up and fetching a glass of water for John. He supervised closely as John drained it off and then carried the glass back into the kitchen, using the actions as a delaying tactic. He wasn't sure how much John had realised about what they were going to have to do if Moriarty was going to trust them enough to get close.

"You'll have to break the law pretty convincingly, Sherlock," John agreed, shocking the thin genius with his insight, "And we'll have to put on a pretty good act between us as well. The whole 'flatmate trying to pull his friend back from the brink' thing."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "You do realise that Moriarty will try to convince you that I'm only pretending to be setting him up at some point."

"I know. He won't be able to, though," John shrugged his good shoulder, "But unless you can find a way to work me into this with you, we'll have to risk it…"

"Hmm," Sherlock frowned, "I would prefer to have you with me… in a situation like this a partner is much better than going it alone."

"Do you think that we can set up a situation where we have to go on the run? One where it only makes sense that you and I are together, without making Mycroft decide to really lock you up?" John frowned, "I'm not that enamoured of the idea of asking for his help, especially after the shite he pulled yesterday, but we'd be fools not to use the resources we have."

Sherlock scowled and settled John so he was lying down again. His Heart was losing colour in his cheeks, which meant pain. All the while, though, his mind was examining and discarding scenarios that would force Mycroft to help him. They couldn't afford to go on the run while John was still so weak, but that didn't mean they couldn't use his convalescence to prepare their strategy. He sat on the floor again, leaning against John's side carefully and thinking hard, a veritable tempest of possibilities and contingencies swirling through his brain.

A small part of him took the time to appreciate that John had merely offered a suggestion and then left him to think it over, not insisting on hearing Sherlock's thoughts as he planned or badgering him for further conversation.

Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Redemption**

Sherlock fell asleep on the floor and woke on the couch. This concerned him for two reasons. Firstly, it meant that John had picked him up off the floor, an action that meant pain and distress for his flatmate and secondly, it meant that John was not where Sherlock could see him.

Leaping from the couch, Sherlock hurried for the most logical place that John could be, the loo: when that failed, he then checked the bathroom, the kitchen and Sherlock's room, followed by John's room. His Heart was nowhere to be found in the flat at all, and Sherlock spun on the spot, his mind calculating and discarding scenarios, everything from John dying and him sleeping through the removal of the body, to a sleeping agent being introduced to the flat's air and John being abducted. He would have found concentrating easier if there hadn't been a continuous rustling sound every time he moved…

Oh. John had pinned a note to Sherlock's chest before disappearing. Glad that no one had been present to witness his… consternation… Sherlock removed the note and read it through. John was downstairs with Mrs Hudson; presumably she had helped him get Sherlock onto the couch, and would wait until Sherlock came down to collect him before attempting the stairs again. Sherlock smoothed the wrinkled paper carefully before carrying it into his room and sandwiching it carefully between the leaves of his great grandfather's sketchbook. Satisfied that his note was safe, Sherlock turned his attention to grooming, spending a leisurely hour setting himself to rights. He did not resent the time he'd spent on John's care, but was pleased that Mrs Hudson was available to take it over for a short while.

Once done, he bounded down the stairs and along the hall to Mrs Hudson's door. He could smell tea and hot butter and sweet, which meant she'd made John pikelets of all things and drowned them in real butter. John was speaking quietly, in a steady, strong voice that brooked no argument, which naturally alerted Sherlock that there was someone else in there with them.

"Mycroft, I thought I told you not to bother coming back," Sherlock sighed, sweeping John with a quick look and reaching over with a frown, "John, I thought we agreed you'd use the sling."

He adjusted his flatmates arm on the table to a better angle before sitting in the seat Mrs Hudson fussed him into, snagging a pikelet and smothering it with jam. He endured her pleased mutters and accepted a cup of tea from her while John gave him the 'who's the doctor here' look. He nodded in reply, pleased that John subsided without verbally chastising him, which meant his Heart understood his concerns.

"I asked Mycroft to come, Sherlock," John said quietly, "I had some things to discuss with him."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and made a silent show of checking his brother for bruises.

"I'm better than that, Sherlock," John huffed, "I'd never leave a _visible_ mark."

Martha giggled into her own tea cup and Mycroft frowned, displeased at being held up to ridicule by Sherlock and his … family would be the most appropriate group noun in this case, though Sherlock would never admit to the word aloud.

"I thought I'd make sure that he knew where things stood before we enlisted his resources in your plan," John continued in an even tone, one which would have made Sherlock nervous if he hadn't known the other man so well. The very idea that John would take Mycroft to task on Sherlock's behalf was … unprecedented. There were emotional connotations too, ones that Sherlock would need time to process and label. He put them aside for later and turned his gaze on his brother.

Mycroft was not best pleased to have been on the receiving end of John's lecture, nor was he best pleased to have been excluded from Sherlock's familial sphere by two very common and ordinary people. He was of course masking his reaction to these events under a very bland face, but Sherlock knew what he was thinking.

"I take it that you have a semblance of a plan?" Mycroft asked in a bland voice to match his face. Sherlock nodded and folded his hands around the mug Martha had given him, enjoying the heat that seeped from the thick porcelain.

"I do," Sherlock replied in the exact same tone, "It will involve some law breaking, but I do not believe I can avoid that at this juncture, not without giving up Baker Street completely and going 'on the run' as it were."

"You would stay here?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Whatever for?"

"Oi!" Martha protested, "This is our home!"

John winced, not in pain, and Sherlock buried his face in his mug for a moment to hide the smirk. Both men had heard this tone before – Mycroft was in for a scolding.

"Mrs Hudson, you cannot be expected to…" Mycroft's voice was supercilious instead of conciliatory, exactly the wrong one to use. Sherlock had learned this through experience.

"Don't you take that tone with me young man," Martha interrupted, "I'll have you know that I'm not so over the hill that I can't help out when necessary."

"Of course, my mistake," Mycroft back tracked, his face arranged in his best 'apologetic' expression. Martha sniffed, clearly not mollified but let the argument die. John gave her a gentle pat to the hand and accepted another pikelet: feeding her tenants always seemed to soothe Martha.

"What precisely do you want from me?" Mycroft clearly thought it would be better to cut the conversation short, which suited Sherlock anyway.

"Access to various computer networks, assistance in manipulating surveillance and data, perhaps weaponry or chemicals if needed," Sherlock replied, "I intend to inform Moriarty that I will take up his 'offer' and I imagine that events will move on rapidly from there."

"There will of course be a loyalty test," Mycroft murmured, "One that may well involve harming Mrs Hudson or Dr Watson."

"That is too obvious for Moriarty," John interrupted, startling both of the Holmes brothers, "It's more likely that he'll keep that as a punishment. I'd lay pounds to pennies that he'll ask you to kill Lestrade or someone else from the Yard."

"Good point," Sherlock nodded, proud of John's astute observations. John rolled his eyes, not fooled, but didn't complain.

"There's no point in borrowing trouble," Martha intervened before Sherlock could irritate his flatmate further, "If a murder is required we'll deal with it then."

"So you wish me to stand by with secure locations to stash your various victims? Is that all?" Mycroft sounded bored, but Sherlock knew better than to fall for that old trick. Mycroft was at his most interested when he sounded bored. Mycroft was, in fact, eager to participate in more than merely cleaning up after politicians.

"For now," Sherlock replied magnanimously, "After all, we cannot expect Scotland Yard to help us catch a criminal of this magnitude."

"Very well," Mycroft sighed, getting to his feet with an expression of long suffering patience, "I trust that you will keep me informed through the usual channels."

"Of course," Sherlock replied neutrally, "I'll show John how to access them too."

Mycroft very nearly tripped over his umbrella at that little sally. Sherlock had _never_ shown _anyone_ how to contact his brother through their secure network before. It was completely without precedent, but the only way Sherlock could think of to show his brother that he was serious about John; that John truly was Sherlock's Heart.

Sherlock smirked as Mycroft strangled through his usual leave takings and showed himself out. Once the front door shut, Martha slapped Sherlock's arm gently, tutting at him.

"That wasn't nice, Sherlock," she reproved, and Sherlock beamed at her unrepentantly, snagging the last pikelet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Waiting to Begin**

A/N – light slash ahead

Of course, putting out the acceptance to the job offer had to be subtle. Firstly, he didn't want the fools at Scotland Yard to interfere with his plans and secondly, Moriarty would expect him to prove his worth as a prospective employee. That meant research, a bit of travelling about talking to just the right people and some rather tiresome waiting for information or responses.

Sherlock would have been in a very disagreeable mood about it all, if it weren't for the fact that he had John to work out as well. His discovery that John was apparently the perfect pillow, that his touch was unusually pleasant, not to mention addictive, had changed the nature of their relationship somewhat. Also, he had to ensure that John was able to access Mycroft's systems, which took a bit of teaching and more patience than he had.

They fought quite fiercely over the computer skills – John complained often that he 'couldn't read minds, Sherlock' and that his teaching skills were non-existent. Eventually John mastered the knowledge though, and Sherlock agreed that the next time John needed to learn a new skill; they'd get a professional in to instruct him. Sherlock was very relieved when it was all over, as it meant that John was more amenable to being touched once more – he'd refused to hold Sherlock's hand after some of their tiffs, which had discomforted the thin genius more than he'd expected.

In addition, John seemed to have hit a threshold in his recovery. It was as if the veteran doctor had required a certain number of days of stillness and quiet before throwing off the pain and illness and throwing himself actively into rehabilitating from his wounds. He stretched, moved and strengthened for long hours of the day, mocking up weights and other exercise equipment to assist in reclaiming muscle tone and health. Martha Hudson was keenly interested in this process and spent a lot of time assisting, either by adding a steadying hand or purchasing various food items of a specific weight to stand in for the more traditional accoutrements. The advantage to using tinned items was that the flatmates could eat them once it was all done.

Finally, all the possible signals of acceptance had been put in place and they were waiting for Moriarty to signal the next step. John had progressed to running laps up and down the stairs, carrying increasing amounts of weight as he did so, which made Sherlock nervous. He didn't want John to injure himself again, especially as he had barely recovered from the last injuries.

Therefore it was a completely altruistic gesture of Sherlock's when he would decoy his partner to the couch to do something that John called 'cuddling'. Sherlock would start out holding John's hands and end up pressed almost full length to his Heart, his skin tingling and his mind pleasantly numb. He had yet to work out why this contact felt so good, but John didn't seem to mind and had a seemingly endless array of touches to share with Sherlock.

Hand massages were good, especially after he'd been typing, texting or playing the violin for great lengths of time. In fact, he'd fallen asleep during a hand massage once, only to awaken a good seven hours later, his thoughts clearer and freer than they'd ever been after sleep. John had been sleeping in his own bed upstairs and had looked so peaceful that Sherlock had joined him, using the quiet time to re-evaluate his plans for Moriarty and put several contingency plans into place.

As clarifying as John's touch was on Sherlock's thought processes, it was the other effects that occurred that had Sherlock curious: for example, increased heart rate and sensitivity, as well as blood flow to an area that Sherlock usually ignored. He knew that John had noticed the effect that his touch had on Sherlock, but his Heart had never said anything about it, nor offered touches to that area. It was rather frustrating really, which prompted a Conversation even more uncomfortable than the one about Moriarty's job offer.

He blurted it out at his flatmate over tea and toast one morning, startling John with his question.

"Why won't you touch me everywhere?" was perhaps not the best way to begin, but John was generous and didn't call him on it.

"Because you're not ready for that," his flatmate's tone was calm and reasonable, which helped Sherlock regain some of his usual poise.

"I think I am," Sherlock retorted, "After all, I brought it up, didn't I?"

"Your body language says otherwise, Sherlock," John sipped his tea and put the mug down with a faint thunk, "You reach only for my hands and shoulders. You certainly don't seem to welcome any intimacy – kissing or other such things."

"You'd kiss me?" Sherlock was distracted by that, "I mean, it was often unpleasant when I… awkward and unhygienic."

"I wouldn't kiss you if either of us were sick or anything," John seemed amused, "And as for awkward, it depends on how relaxed you are about it – not to mention the skill of your partner."

Sherlock had to concede that his skill level in this arena was not the highest. John reached out and caught one of Sherlock's hands, a gesture that had become so natural that he didn't suspect anything until John raised it to his lips…

The touch of John's mouth was electric, even though it was a simple dry brush of flesh over his knuckles. Sherlock swallowed hard as the gentle touch repeated itself again, lingering a little longer the time. His mouth went dry as John turned his hand over a pressed another dry kiss to his palm, lingering once more, turning the single kiss into four or five, a hint of moisture creeping into the touch. John smiled at him, a wicked glint in his eye as he turned Sherlock's hand over once more and …

… drew a single finger into his mouth. Sherlock gasped and squirmed, his groin suddenly tight and aching as John's tongue caressed his finger gently. He could not contain a soft sound as a hint of teeth scraped slowly over the length of his suddenly sensitised flesh, and when John _sucked_ Sherlock convulsed, his lap suddenly wet and sticky, his whole body singing as he panted for breath and John slowly eased his finger free of his flatmates mouth.

He barely noticed as John eased around the table and gathered him into a hug, letting Sherlock lean against him and recover his scattered wits.

"A good kiss can be worth its weight in gold," John sounded smug, which Sherlock supposed he was entitled to. He nodded his head against John's chest and caught his breath, but John didn't wait for that, "When you can show me that you are ready, Sherlock, then other touches will follow."

Sherlock hummed in reply and closed his eyes, wondering what it would be like to kiss John in the same way and resolving to find out once he'd had a chance to clean up and change his clothes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Probationary Employment**

By the time Moriarty got around to indicating that he wasn't dead and the 'job offer' still stood, Sherlock had gotten quite good at the kissing side of things, provided he wasn't touching John's mouth. This was partly because he still found the idea of pressing his mouth against someone else's vaguely unhygienic but mostly because he liked the way John sounded when they were kissing and touching. Kissing and touching John was more than a bit good – if pressed Sherlock would have owned that it was in fact brilliant.

Therefore he vaguely resented Moriarty's timing. Sherlock was a quick learner, and John seemed to have an endless array of things to teach him. However, his Heart made the very clever argument that they wouldn't get any peace until Moriarty was gone for good, and then mentioned something about a reward system. Sherlock was now 'on a promise' – and while he didn't know what that entailed, he certainly was willing to get Moriarty's first task out of the way in order to find out.

Moriarty had a 'client' that resented working hard to earn money for other people and had therefore come up with a 'Cunning Plan' to embezzle a significant amount of money. He wished for Moriarty to assist him in relocating to another country with his new-found wealth, on the understanding that he would first assist Moriarty to increase his own monetary resources first. Apparently, this client had fulfilled his side of the bargain and Moriarty was going to keep his. Sherlock had expected John to be surprised by this seemingly honourable action, but his flatmate had muttered something about 'not killing the goose that lays the golden eggs' and once Sherlock had Googled that reference he'd agreed with the sentiment.

"So do we fake his death? And is there any family involved?" John asked, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder to have a look at the files they'd received electronically – not that the files had come in any recognisable format, but more as the result of what John called an 'Easter egg' hunt. Sherlock appreciated that his flatmate was leaning without tempting touches and let him look his full.

"There is a wife, no children. The client does not wish her to join him," Sherlock reported, "I suppose you could call this a cheap divorce."

"And what's in it for you, apart from beginning to establish your credentials? If you're going to give up your gainful employment, you'll need some sort of wage or kick-back," John quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock, then smiled, "What? I've been paying attention."

"Good, because we can't afford mistakes," Sherlock replied, "I'll be paid after the job is done - I've set up an anonymous bank account."

"So, how shall we do this?" John asked, "Simpler would be better, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "So no phoney car hires."

John snickered and walked away to the kitchen to make tea, leaving Sherlock to think. The consulting genius appreciated this as well, but dismissed it for later, turning his mind to plans and possibilities. He made a note to get Mrs Hudson to buy a portable computer for him – they'd need a third machine that was isolated from their usual machines and unregistered on the internet in order to store their evidence for the Yard to read through once this was all over – and then began mentally drafting his plan.

John left tea and hobnobs at his elbow before retiring to his usual chair with the paper and his own tea. The two men sat in silence at their selected tasks for several hours, though John got up and went out of the room on several occasions, speaking to Mrs Hudson on the stairs and moving about in his own bedroom for a short time. Martha interrupted Sherlock to ask if he needed anything at the shops and disappeared with Sherlock's stash of fifty pound notes and written instructions as to the type of computer he required.

She returned hours later in a taxi and John went down to help her with her shopping, coming back upstairs with several weighty bags and the computer in its box. He unpacked it and plugged it in to charge, though he didn't turn it on, knowing that Sherlock would prefer to configure it himself. Sherlock grunted approval as John sat back in his chair with a novel, getting a wry grin in response.

"You have a real talent for silence, John," Sherlock said several hours later, turning to open the new computer and boot it up.

"You're welcome," John replied lightly, "I take it you have a plan now?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "We'll use this computer to store our evidence and files for those idiots at the Yard…"

"I meant a plan to help our new 'client' disappear," John corrected himself. Sherlock shot him a look and nodded, but chose to concentrate on the computer first. He noted that John was writing in an A4 exercise book, the type that could be bought in any stationery aisle in any supermarket.

"Back up files, good idea, John," Sherlock approved, "I assume you have a secure, fireproof container to keep them in?"

"Yes," John nodded, "It's hidden away carefully too. You'll be storing the computer in the safe under the bath, right?"

"How did you…" Sherlock looked up, his typing not even pausing as he glared lightly at his smug flatmate, "You've been snooping!"

"I've been fixing the plumbing and had to get at the pipes," John corrected, "You're just upset because you don't know my hiding place."

That was true, so Sherlock didn't dignify it with an answer. He had no idea where John was keeping the container he'd spoken of and had no time to winkle the information from his flatmate.

"So how will this work?" John asked, with only a hint of smugness in his tone. Sherlock appreciated the gesture – had their positions been reversed, the thin genius knew himself well enough to know that he would have been lording his knowledge over John mercilessly.

"Have you got the clients name and all of the particulars down?" Sherlock waited until John compared his notes to Sherlock's on the screen and then nodded, "Very well, then. I plan for our client to catch a cab tomorrow night. He's attending a 'work do' I believe it's called. His wife will not be in attendance as she is currently out of town visiting her brother and his new baby. I will be driving that cab – I'll take him to a small airport with a charter flight to France and then escort him off to Dubai. During that time, you will remain in Baker Street and handle any queries as to my location."

"You're still here, but refusing to see Lestrade if he calls because he didn't trust you?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head. A glance at John's page showed only notes about the task ahead of them, with none about Sherlock's supposed alibi – which was as it should be. Mycroft would not be best pleased to have unsecured information about his role in things lying around Baker Street.

"I wouldn't put it past Lestrade to orchestrate another 'drugs bust' in the middle of the night to try and corner me," he replied, "No, if Lestrade asks, I'm visiting Mummy in France. I'll give you a number to pass on, but do try to ensure that you seem to be under duress from police harassment when you do so. Interpol records will show that I left the country legally and have gone no further than France, so that's all right."

"And you left today?" John nodded when Sherlock beamed at him, pleased that the man had picked up the nuances of the game so quickly, "Alright then, Martha and I can manage that."

"Good," Sherlock nodded, "Don't forget to lock that notebook up."

"I won't," John promised, "You'll be off soon?"

"Yes," Sherlock's chest felt tight again and he reached out, drawing John close to his side and wrapping his arms around the smaller man, "You must be careful while I'm away. You owe me a 'promise'."

"I will be," John vowed and Sherlock resigned himself to having to make do with that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**A short lull in the workload**

A/N – **very** slight mention of slash

Sherlock was away for a week, though it only took three days to settle their 'client' in his new identity. The man was a complete bore and Sherlock was more than glad to see the back of him. He'd done an especially good job on the client's new background and so forth: provided the man didn't do anything truly stupid he would be untraceable to Scotland Yard.

On his way back, it was politic to visit Mummy. After all, she was providing his alibi in a way, and she was always on at Mycroft to get Sherlock to visit more often. Sherlock took the opportunity to furnish her with pictures of his Heart and Mrs Hudson and she was pleased to send Martha a canister of her specially blended coffee and a handwritten note. Mummy had of course understood that Martha took very good care of him, which pleased her immensely.

Mummy sent John a small, hand-carved box, made from polished rosewood. She made Sherlock promise not to open it, something that he gave her very reluctantly. He'd never broken a promise to Mummy in his life, not even when he was very small, and wasn't about to start now, which meant he'd have to wait until he was back with John in Baker Street.

Mummy had these gifts to hand already, which meant that Mycroft had been telling tales again. Sherlock didn't like that, but kept it to himself as Mummy got upset when her sons 'had a little tiff'.

The rest of their four day visit was spent in various galleries and boutiques. Mummy liked to shop and Sherlock took the opportunity to pick out a few items that he wanted to see John in, though none of them suits. His family only wore suits from Mycroft's tailor, which meant that John had a short shopping trip in his future should the veteran doctor ever be required to wear one. Sherlock's shopping was more about cashmere jumpers and a better coat.

Of course, he didn't get to see the jumpers on John, nor the contents of the wooden box straight away. From the state of the flat, things had been busy. John was out, which Sherlock didn't like at all, but Mrs Hudson had been very happy to see him.

"Scotland Yard have been very persistent in their inquiries for you and John has been called down tot heir offices again this morning," Mrs Hudson warned him as he handed over her tea from Mummy, "Thank you dearie. I'll send your mother a little note."

"As you like," Sherlock replied, bounding back upstairs to see if he could deduce why John had been called to the Yard. The note on the fridge helped.

'_Yard wants me to take a look at a body for identification purposes. Back by eight at the latest – John._'

Sherlock tutted and pulled out his phone, firing off a curt text.

_Give me back my blogger – SH_

It was half five, so Sherlock ordered them some dinner from the local Indian place, glancing at his phone when it chirped at him.

_On my way home – need anything? Thanks for the text to L – JW_

_I ordered dinner – SH_ was the short reply and Sherlock checked on his blog with a sense of having done something Good. John liked it when Sherlock remembered to do little things like this, which meant that hopefully he'd be in a good mood when he got back and Sherlock could redeem his Promise, whatever that entailed.

John arrived just after the food did, and given his pale appearance, Sherlock judged it best that the man eat something first.

"What did the Yard want?" Sherlock asked, "I assume it was Lestrade?"

"Dimmock, actually," John sighed, sopping up some tikka with naan bread, "The little twerp caught a missing person case – some financier who disappeared after a work do just after you went to see Mummy."

Sherlock smirked at his Heart, who was clearly telling him the story he'd been maintaining with the Yard. It was quite entertaining to see John lie, not because he was bad at it, but because Sherlock knew that the _real_ story was and liked to see how John wove truth into his falsehoods. John grinned back and stole some cauliflower off Sherlock's plate.

"He's convinced that there is foul play involved and insisted that Anderson go through all the John Doe's in the morgues around the place to see if anyone matching his missing man has turned up. Anderson threw his toys out of the pram and Lestrade suggested that I help Dimmock out instead – the bugger," John scowled, "Dimmock had been harping on about how he's perfectly capable of solving cases without you and I very nearly told him what to do with himself yesterday."

Sherlock scowled and snapped a heated text off to Lestrade about the proper way to treat John – which meant Not Loaning Him Out As If He Was A Library Book. John tried to sneak a look at the text but Sherlock evaded him, which led to a short chase, a brief bout of wrestling and John finally knocking him flat onto Sherlock's bed and Touching him.

Touching his genitals, in fact, with his hand, while his mouth nibbled Sherlock's neck and ear and said some really intriguing things, all of which led to Sherlock needing to eventually catch his breath and have a shower. He changed into pyjamas and his robe and came out to find that John had washed up and was curled on the couch with the telly on. Sherlock joined him at once, cuddling close, secure in the knowledge that he was welcome.

"Mummy sent you a present," Sherlock informed his Heart, drawing the box from where he'd stashed it in the pocket of his robe; "She made me promise not to open it."

"How was she?" John asked, accepting the box and turning it in his hands. It was carved in a geometric pattern, the texture silky smooth from the careful polish that had been lovingly maintained. Sherlock craned his head back a bit from where it was resting on John's good shoulder to look at his Heart's profile. John was serious in his question, which was generous of him. He'd never met Mummy, though he would soon enough. Now that she knew about him, Mummy would invite John to visit her within the next few months.

She never came back to England after the Divorce, so John would have to brush up on his French.

"She has a new beau," Sherlock sighed, "He's some sort of artist – she was his patron at first and then he did her portrait."

"Did he do a good job?" John seemed to want to really know, but Sherlock was impatient to see what Mummy had sent.

"I don't know: I haven't seen it – or him before you ask. I never bother to meet them, it's simply too hard to keep up. Mummy likes variety," Sherlock shrugged. He never cared about his mother's suitors, as she never kept them long enough to make meeting them worthwhile, "Are you going to open that or are you going to torture me?"

"Haven't you deduced the contents?" John sounded amused and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hairline, "Weighed it, shaken it…"

"I promised to let you open it," Sherlock protested. He knew himself well enough to leave the box entirely alone if he wanted to be able to keep his promise. If he'd tried to deduce the contents he'd have _had_ to open it to see if he was right.

John chuckled, amused, but ran his thumbnail around the seam of the box before carefully pulling the top off. Inside, there was a piece of black velvet, clearly wrapped around something else. John took the velvet out, replaced the lid on the box and then carefully unwrapped the material. His breath caught and Sherlock felt himself tense.

In the palm of John's hand rested a signet ring with the Vernet family device clearly stamped upon it. Mummy was a Vernet, so this was her great grandfather's signet ring. To send a gift such as that meant that she clearly understood the significance of John in Sherlock's life – this was her way of telling her son that she approved of his choice whole-heartedly. It would also send a very strong message to Mycroft, especially as Mummy had never sent a family heirloom to Mycroft's lover at all. Of course, she was a complete secret that would never be seen in public with Mycroft, but that was beside the point.

"Sherlock, I can't …" John sounded shocked: clearly he understood the import of this gift. Sherlock twisted around and closed his hands over John's, peering into his face intently. John fell silent and let him look, obviously more comfortable letting Sherlock deduce his thoughts than trying to say them out loud.

He felt unworthy of such a gift, which meant he was insecure in their relationship because Sherlock simply didn't provide the reinforcements that more mundane people would. He wanted to wear the ring, simply because it would clarify things between them, but was uncertain that Sherlock understood the full emotional ramifications that putting the ring on would bring about.

Sherlock kissed the hands he held lightly and tugged the ring out from between John's palms. He smiled at his Heart and slipped the ring onto John's left pinkie.

"It's the Vernet family seal," Sherlock explained, "Mummy has had it for a long time. She never gave Mycroft's partner anything like this, though I think she sends the odd knickknack."

John was quiet, looking down at their joined hands, his breathing a little fast. When he looked up Sherlock flushed and tugged his Heart quickly from the couch to the bedroom, mentally sending Mummy a heartfelt thank you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Two for the price of one**

After his success abroad, Sherlock felt that it was as if Moriarty wanted to test his resolve. They went for another three weeks without any further contact with the master criminal, which Sherlock found unnecessarily coy. In the meantime, there was a case for Scotland Yard to solve – a rather peculiar murder dressed as suicide dressed as an accident that required all of John's not inconsiderable talents at smoothing ruffled feathers.

Not only were they not working with Lestrade and his team – which was slightly good, because Sherlock knew that John was still angry with them for their lack of faith in the consulting detective – but they were reduced to working with Dimmock. The younger detective had yet to learn Sherlock's methods and working style, which cause considerable friction between them with John often caught in the middle. In fact the consultant couldn't believe how dense Detective Dimmock could be on occasion and had several rather sharp comments lined up about his treatment of John to boot.

Dimmock seemed to think that just because Lestrade had volunteered John's assistance in the still unsolved case of the missing financier, that he could monopolise John's attention and time. He treated John very much like a walking reference and personal servant. Only _Sherlock_ had rights to John, something that Dimmock had yet to learn.

Thus Sherlock was _very_ pleased when Moriarty's next task had a direct impact on Dimmock. It appeared that the young DS had been investigating several of Moriarty's lower orders and the consulting criminal wished for the DS to be rendered impotent. Not literally, John was quick to point out when he spotted Sherlock glaring at his chemistry set, a comment that earned a reluctant quirk of the lips. Sherlock _liked_ that his John could follow his more obvious thought patterns.

"We need to find a way to sabotage his career, or at the very least divert him into harmless lines," Sherlock mused aloud, balancing the skull between his hands and whirling to look at John. The doctor tilted his head a little, obviously thinking about a way to satisfy Moriarty without doing anything irreparable to Dimmock.

"Who's Moriarty's biggest opponent in that area of the community?" John asked suddenly, "Could we frame him for Dimmock's investigation? Two birds with one stone, sort of thing?"

Sherlock stared at his flatmate, his mind whirling at a thousand miles an hour. In the space of fifteen minutes, during which John started reading the evening paper, Sherlock considered and discarded a number of possible scenarios that would effectively neutralise Dimmock's investigation, remove a small nuisance from Moriarty's criminal underworld and showcase his creative abilities to his 'employer' in one fell swoop. Through it all, John sat there in his plain cream jumper, frayed trousers and mismatched socks, reading the evening paper and sitting perfectly still so as to avoid distracting the thinking genius.

"John, you are brilliant," Sherlock breathed, "So very brilliant that I'm beginning to suspect you're an idiot savant."

"That term isn't used any more," John commented without looking up, a small smirk on his face, "I'll take it as a compliment though."

"You do that," Sherlock twirled on the spot, depositing the skull on the mantelpiece and leaping for the door, "Don't wait up – I've got some people to see."

"Take my gun and _be careful_ Sherlock," John replied, "You know I worry."

"Yes my Heart," Sherlock replied and bolted up the stairs to liberate John's gun from the lockbox he kept it in, bounding back down and out of the house in a flurry of coat and scarf.

It was not difficult to put the first few parts of his plan in place. Sherlock relished the task – it was such a change from his usual diversion that the novelty was almost as addictive as his nicotine patches. Coming back to Baker Street in the early hours of the morning, it struck Sherlock that it would be very easy to slip into this double life for real. To tell John one thing and yet do the other. It would be so easy to deceive his flatmate about certain points of their work, to set slightly less than perfect traps for Moriarty – something that his new playmate would see as Sherlock's attempts to propitiate John's concerns, while John saw them as more honest attempts to end the Game…

Sherlock slipped silently up the stairs to the flat, his mind alight with possibilities until he stepped through their door and saw John asleep on the couch, a book under his hand.

His Heart had waited up for him, despite being told to go to bed at his usual time. Lit by the reading lamp, John seemed to sleep in a floating pool of light. All thoughts of deceit melted away.

John had faith in Sherlock: a self-professed sociopath with the most abominable manners and habits that any flatmate – any partner – could have. His Heart allowed him to be cold and unfeeling, to be brutish and rude, to take without asking, to demand, sulk and generally misbehave… allowed him to do all that and more not because he was a doormat with no will of his own, but because by some inexplicably random providence, he _understood._

John had always just… got it. His protests were tokens, designed to highlight the boundaries and customs that Sherlock was trampling without seeking to truly curb him. The argument about the way Sherlock refused to show any feeling for the victims of Moriarty's Game had never been about his lack of caring or anything else – it had been John's way of reminding Sherlock that his dispassion was alienating those he worked with.

For the first time, Sherlock understood that work went better with John because John did the feeling for _both_ of them. Sherlock didn't need to acknowledge it, to waste time putting it aside, because in some inexplicable, invaluable symbiosis, John had already taken the burden from him.

Moving silently, Sherlock slid to the floor in front of the couch and laid his hand over John's chest, measuring the pulse beneath the sturdy ribs. Although he still had work to do, he put it aside for now, revelling in the presence of his living, breathing Heart.

A/N – ok, that was sappy, but it got away from me…


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Increasing the Level of Difficulty**

Moriarty did not wait for the fallout to settle from Dimmock's frame-up. The next task was ready and waiting as Sherlock returned to Baker Street after watching Lestrade haul Dimmock over the coals for his 'blunders'. John had insisted on carefully documenting every step of their plan, in order to be able to undo the damage once this was all over. They now had an electronic and paper record of Dimmock's carefully planned downfall to present to the Yard – Sherlock hoped that the young man was nowhere near himself or John when the news broke.

"Theft?" John frowned as Sherlock laid the details of the next task out, "That's a bit… pedestrian, isn't it? We've gone from interfering with the police and relocating criminals across international lines to plain old theft?"

"This is a little more than theft, John," Sherlock sighed, "We're talking about stealing information, not objects."

"Espionage," John grinned, "Very James Bond."

"Please, not another movie marathon," Sherlock groaned, giving his flatmate a distinctly pleading look. Those films had been a waste of time, though he had been in John's good books for a few days afterwards, "That was a day of my life I'll never get back."

"Ah, but this time you'll get the snuggling that traditionally goes with staying it to watch a movie," John laughed and Sherlock pulled a face before returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"So what is it that Moriarty wants, and how safe is it to give to him?" John abandoned the teasing, proving once more that he had the right priorities when it came to their lives together. Sherlock offered him a twitch of the lips to convey his approval and turned back to their instructions.

"He wants a passkey – a computer code that will allow him to access governmental databases and archives," Sherlock frowned, "It would allow him to by-pass certain security features in the governmental network. He doubtless has a hacker that could take the passkey and leverage access into every level of the network."

"He could topple national security, set the interest rates or just rob the government blind," John frowned, "That's… enormous. Can we risk failing this one?"

"John, if we were to so much as _hint_ to Mycroft that we wanted the passkey my own brother would lock us up for the rest of our lives," Sherlock said crossly, "We're _supposed_ to fail."

John thought for a moment. It was fascinating to watch the process and Sherlock was quite proud that it only took his flatmate forty two seconds to realise what the _real_ purpose of the task was.

"It's a distraction. While the government is running around looking for the thieves, Moriarty has another operative go after the _real_ target… and that will get blamed on the first set of thieves," John said flatly. Sherlock patted his knee with his palm and John sighed.

"I'll need to set something up that will appear plausible to both Moriarty and the various intelligence officers that monitor this sort of thing," Sherlock mused aloud, now rubbing his palm in absent minded circles over John's kneecap, "And I'll need to ensure that I am called into the investigation so that I can sabotage it as needed."

"Is there any indication as to what Moriarty is really looking for? Obviously he'll suspect that you know you're being set up to fail, so will he also expect you to deduce his real target?" John asked. Sherlock froze for a long moment, staring into space as his mind worked furiously.

"I'm not sure," he murmured in reply, "John, I need you to go up to your room for a while and be absolutely still. Take some books to read. I need to think."

Before the Pool, Sherlock would have thrown his Heart out of the flat with instructions not to come back for a few hours – with Moriarty around that was simply no longer an option. John was to be kept safe at all costs, but Sherlock wasn't sure that he'd be able to concentrate like he needed to with John in the same room, even if he was silent and mostly still.

"Sherlock! Where are your manners?" Martha scolded from the door, "You come down with me, John dear. Sending you to your room as if you were a child, the very idea!"

"I don't mind, Mrs Hudson. You know what he's like when he needs to think," John grinned and slipped out from under Sherlock's hand and going to the shelves. He grabbed a couple of books and followed their landlady down the stairs without a backwards look or a hint of complaint. Sherlock spent a moment reflecting on his gratitude for John's steady nature and then put it aside, locating his nicotine patches and settling onto the couch for a good hard think.

The problem as he saw it was that they needed to fail in such a way as to prove their mettle, while at the same time assessing the real target. Moriarty was after something particular that would allow him to increase his resources or network. The question was: how much of an advantage was safe to give the other man – how safe was it to let him have what he wanted? Sherlock was supposed to be taking Moriarty down, not helping to build his empire. Although he and his Heart both knew that their goal would not be achieved overnight, Sherlock didn't want to be still at it a year from now.

Above all else, Mycroft was not to be involved in this – if something went wrong they would need him to be above reproach in order to intervene for them. That they were keeping the man in the dark was just what John would have called 'icing on the cake'. With all that in mind, Sherlock began planning the contacts and resources he would need to tap to get the task begun. John would need to be involved as more than a peripheral in this – there was no one else that Sherlock trusted and it would allow him to genuinely establish his partner's importance in completing the tasks.

When Sherlock was satisfied with his plans he popped up off the couch and clattered down the stairs, dimly recognising that it was quite dark now as he went in search of Mrs Hudson and John. They were in her front room, assembling bookcases from Argos. Sherlock hadn't heard the cases being delivered, which meant…

"You went out!" he scowled, "John, it's not safe!"

"I will not cower in Baker Street," John replied in a calm voice. That voice always meant trouble, so Sherlock folded his arms and pressed his lips into a cross line, knowing full well that a silent expression of his disapproval would be more effective than a verbal one at this point.

"I took my gun with me," John sighed, "We were quite safe."

"You did?" Martha exclaimed, looking quite startled and John shot her an amused look, nodding to his jacket which was draped in an armchair.

"I wouldn't take risks with your security, nor mine," he said firmly, "So stop pouting Sherlock and come hold the other side of this for me."

"Tea please," Sherlock told Martha, who rolled her eyes and headed off to her kitchen, muttering under her breath the familiar refrain. John grinned at him over the pieces of furniture and started wielding an allen key energetically.

"I'll need you to work with me on this one," Sherlock informed John, "We'll start tonight, and you'll have to come out with me when I meet some of my contacts. You'll need to coordinate the information flow and be my rep."

"Can do," John nodded, coming around to Sherlock's side, "Move your hand down."

Sherlock moved his hand as directed and watched as John finished his assembly task, helping to lift the bookcase upright and place it against the wall. Martha came in with the tea while John shoved the packing materials outside, to later be dragged around the corner to a skip. Sherlock sat and drank his tea while John and Martha loaded books onto the case, along with a few knickknacks. Once done he tossed John's coat to him and led him out, deigning to carry a piece of the packing box on the understanding that John would move faster.

"We've got to find Ferret and Badger tonight," Sherlock informed his Heart as they ducked down a back alley in a familiar shortcut, "They're usually hanging around Charing Cross Station at this time of night. They'll be able to get hold of three others that I need, and from there we'll begin testing security. Ferret is trustworthy up to a point, but Badger is a double agent for Moriarty, so watch what you say around him."

"Got it," John nodded, "By testing security I take it you mean picking pockets and stealing bags?"

"Very good John, you're starting to get the idea," Sherlock said in admiration, to which his flatmate snorted in reply. Sherlock smirked at him and headed to the left, aiming for a shortcut that would take them across the roofs.

He was very pleased to see that John was keeping up with him easily, though there was a slight hitch in his breath when he stretched on the left side. Making a mental note to keep an eye on his partner, Sherlock led them into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**A Test of their Defences**

Sherlock watched with delight as John smoothly negotiated with his contact for the final access pass they needed to get into the target building. Sherlock had decided in the end that an in-person attack was required, which meant disguises and mimicry and cleverness, all things he enjoyed doing from time to time. They had split up for the last three days, each responsible for running their own contacts, with John also impersonating Sherlock electronically through texts and emails and blog postings to keep Scotland Yard at bay.

Now Sherlock was hiding in the shadows, unable to resist watching his Heart at work. Where Sherlock would have infiltrated through lies and façades, John went as mostly himself – a veteran with a need for particular information. He implied, through his words and gestures that he had fallen on hard times and turned to crime to pay the bills, but never pretended to be anything than a man who lived in a flat and was looking for information. John was not an adept actor, so Sherlock had encouraged him in the strongest terms to stick to the truth as much as possible.

John wrapped up his business, making the exchange after checking the access card on the small reader that he had also 'acquired'. Sherlock watched as the contact slipped away and John waited silently in the shadows for a few moments before heading in the opposite direction. Debating if he should try to pick John up while still in his disguise or if he should just beat his flatmate home and therefore be first in the bathroom, Sherlock waited for a moment longer before moving himself.

It was fortunate he did.

Just as Sherlock was about to sneak up on John for a lark, another shadow detached itself and moved towards his flatmate. A glint of metal in the man's hand proved that his intentions were not benign. He had a knife, short blade, probably foldable, definitely sharp.

Ahead of them both, John sped up a few steps and turned the corner, ducking into one of the many narrow and twisted byways that made Whitechapel the warren it was. Sherlock knew those alleys and byways better than anyone: therefore he knew that John was taking to the rooftops right now, which meant that he had also realised he was being followed. Sherlock watched John's would-be attacker hurry forward, not quite quietly enough, in an effort to maintain contact with his quarry.

It was a moment's work to cut along a parallel alley and shimmy up a down pipe, arriving on the roof ahead of John's pursuer but after his Heart. John was moving away from the edge at a rapid pace, ensuring that he kept low and moved from shadow to shadow as much as possible. Taking a chance, Sherlock fired off a quick text and was pleased to see John pause and then change course as he had suggested. The shadowy figure of John's tail slid over the edge of the roof and spotted his quarry, just as they both wanted him to.

It was over in minutes. John led the man past the shadows where Sherlock was hiding and Sherlock had knocked him cold before he even knew that he'd been attacked.

"Nice moustache," John chuckled, turning back to help secure their catch and search the man for clues. Sherlock smirked at him and twirled an end as he had once seen a 'villain' do on late night telly. John shook his head and rummaged the outer pockets of the man they'd assaulted.

"Nothing, not even a wallet: just some cash and the knife," he sighed, slipping said knife into his own pocket, "Do you recognise him?"

"He's one of Tiny Tim's men. An affiliate of Moriarty's," Sherlock sighed, "Someone's got their wires crossed."

With signs, he indicated that the unconscious man was wired for sound – either broadcasting or recording. Sherlock had located the small device, but had not wanted to disturb it and risk giving the game away. John nodded and pinched his lips shut, standing back and looking carefully around.

"Did you notice if he had a partner?" the question would have been insulting if Sherlock hadn't known it was for the benefit of eavesdroppers.

"He didn't, John, do you really have to ask?" Sherlock put as much disdain and snippiness into his tone as he could, his eyes conveying a different message altogether. He'd missed his John immensely over the last few days and was looking forward to returning to the flat.

"Sorry, I'm sure," John's tone was also at odds with his expression, "We'd best head back to Baker Street. I suppose there's no point in calling the police about this idiot."

"None," Sherlock confirmed, standing up and taking John's arm in his hand, gripping delicately, "Let's go."

John nodded and followed along at Sherlock's shoulder, right where the other man preferred him to be. In silence, they crossed several rooftops before slipping back to street level and emerging on a main thoroughfare to catch a taxi back to Baker Street.

"That really is a disgusting moustache," John shook his head as the taxi rumbled its way down Baker Street, "Blonde doesn't suit you at all."

"No?" Sherlock asked absently, more interested in twining their fingers together in a Gordian knot, "Never mind, I'll take it off when we get home."

"This is as far as I can go, mate. There's a spot of bother up there," the cabbie announced suddenly, "Looks like the address you gave me, too."

John was out of the cab and running towards the fire trucks before the taxi came to a full halt, leaving Sherlock to pay with the cash he'd lifted from the pockets of the man they'd knocked out and left on the roof. It was the least he could do for them, after the threat he'd posed to John.

On the footpath, there was a soggy mess, comprised mostly of cardboard and rags, doused in what appeared to be petrol. From the traces, the lot had been tossed on the front steps of 221 and set alight. Someone had used a chemical extinguisher to put it out, though not before the front door had suffered considerable scorching and the brickwork had been blackened with sooty residue.

"Oh John, dear, it's made a terrible mess," Martha was fussing to Sherlock's flatmate, "I used that fire extinguisher you said to keep handy under the stairs: it worked like a treat, but the front door…"

"That can be replaced, Mrs Hudson," John soothed her, an arm around her shoulders, "Were you hurt at all? Any shortness of breath from the smoke?"

"No, dearie, I'm fit as a fiddle. After Sherlock's shenanigans, this is quite tame," was the vaguely insulting reply, but as Sherlock was in disguise he wasn't able to protest without breaking character. He made a subtle sign to John and then slipped away, getting around to the back of the house and climbing up the down pipe again to the bathroom window. It took precisely 64 seconds to remove all traces of his disguise, shimmy back down to ground level and then around to the front of the house, where the police had finally arrived along with a first response ambulance. John was insisting that Martha be checked over and Sherlock went to collect samples and other evidence before the police could ruin the scene totally.

In the back of his mind, though, he was aware that this had been a test of their defences. Moriarty was looking for weaknesses in Sherlock's life: looking for things to exploit at a later date. They'd weathered the first attempts, but Sherlock would need to spend some time enhancing the security of Baker Street and the people he lived with: and soon.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Moriarty's Lose End**

It was not as difficult as Sherlock had thought to improve security at Baker Street. Once they had completed their task as 'distraction' for Moriarty's theft of the coming interest rates – money was such a _dull_ motive, really and Sherlock was a little disappointed – it didn't take much effort for Sherlock to set up an arson attack on one of Moriarty's favourite clubs. The damage done was much more significant – smoke could be _very_ hard to clean up – but no lives were lost, which had been a major concern of both partners. John had been concerned because he was a doctor and Sherlock hadn't wanted to escalate the hostilities between himself and whichever faction with Moriarty's organisation that was testing his loyalty.

John's concern about the loss of innocent life was to be tested with their next 'task'. It had taken Sherlock only a week to organise and complete his little arson attack, during which time Moriarty and the Yard had both been occupied with other things – the criminal with manipulating the market in his quest for profit and the Yard in solving a spate of armed robberies, netting large amounts of money with precision tactics.

In hindsight, Sherlock should have anticipated that Molly Hooper would be a target of Moriarty, if only because she was something of a loose end. Lestrade had interviewed her extensively in the aftermath of Moriarty's bombing spree, but she had very little information to offer the DI, what with being completely unaware of Moriarty's true identity or business. That didn't mean that she wasn't an unwelcome connection to the master criminal, especially in light of some rather frightening news.

Molly Hooper was pregnant. This was, in part, basis of her denial that Jim from IT was gay – he had bedded her on their first date and then continued to do so on an extremely regular basis. Molly had not realised that she was pregnant until weeks after the Pool Incident and had in fact spent some time in denial over the whole issue.

Sherlock was aware that Molly's attraction to him had made her very easy to manipulate – part of him had despised her for being so easy to use – and it was this unfortunate facet of her personality that had made her an ideal target for Moriarty's attentions. He knew that Sherlock wasn't interested in her, choosing to simply use her as a way to get close to his real object of interest.

"You don't think that Moriarty is asking this of you because of the arson attack, do you?" John had asked once Sherlock had explained their next task, dread in his eyes. Sherlock considered the question carefully, calculating the many parameters that would change Molly's status in Moriarty's eyes.

"No," Sherlock said at length, "I believe that Moriarty simply doesn't want his connection to Molly to be strengthened by the arrival of a child. Molly alone would have been embarrassing, but I believe he would have eventually found amusement in stalking or otherwise tormenting her. Molly was being kept in abeyance – for a time when he was bored. Now that her pregnancy is known…"

"She applied for maternity leave," John sifted through the documents on the table that belonged to Molly's file, "Poor girl."

"Stupid girl," Sherlock retorted, not liking that John was worrying about Molly Hooper of all people, "She should never have trusted birth control measures to her partner. All too simple to sabotage it, especially if you supply them yourself."

Real anger flared in John's eyes for a moment and Sherlock wondered if his partner would hit him, so enraged did he appear. John shoved his chair away from the kitchen table and stormed out into the front room, fisting his hands in his hair and muttering too quietly for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock refrained from sighing or making any other gestures that would further upset his partner and returned to looking for a way to kill Molly that would not lead back to him or John. Lestrade would probably call them in on the case, and if there was a body for investigation it would need to withstand intense scientific scrutiny – on both the Yard and Moriarty's part.

"You're right, I suppose," John grated the words from where he stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly about his chest, "But don't you ever, and I mean _never_, tell Molly that. Not through look or gesture or implication or plain outright saying it. Do you understand me, Sherlock? _Never_."

"Never my Heart," Sherlock promised, pleased to have gotten away without a lecture. He made a mental note to apply that to John as well, before turning back to the file in front of him. It would avoid arguments, which made his chest tight. Besides if John was in a bad mood, he may not be willing to enter into further physical intimacies with Sherlock – something the genius was eager to pursue.

"We need to think of a way to do this that will satisfy both Moriarty and the Yard that she is dead, beyond all shadow of a doubt, and at the same time to protect her and the child," Sherlock informed John as he sat back down opposite the thin sleuth, "We need to find a way to make her disappear completely."

"Permanently or just until Moriarty is gone?" John asked, "Permanently would be easier, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "But I don't think Molly would agree to it, do you? She likes working in the morgue and has friends here."

"After what she's been through, I think a chance at a totally new life would be welcomed," John informed him. Sherlock nodded, shelving the argument for now. After all, people were John's strength, plotting was his.

"We'll need to talk to her at some point," Sherlock mused, "And we may well need Mycroft's assistance with this one – if her change of identity is to be permanent it will need to be even more durable than for that idiot embezzler in Dubai."

"If we faked a suicide," John frowned, "One where her body was never found… that won't satisfy Moriarty, will it."

"No, we will need her to be declared dead, with a body that can satisfy scientific scrutiny…" Sherlock trailed off, "Or… an accident. An accident with just enough genetic material left behind to satisfy Moriarty and her colleagues, but done in such a way that no one would ever question that she had survived… tell me, John, how much blood can a pregnant woman lose before it affects the health of herself and the foetus?"

"If we absolutely had to have blood, then no more than a pint – expectant mothers with existing medical conditions who need to have surgery have been able to bank that much blood prior to surgery… but it will weaken her considerably," John frowned at Sherlock when he shifted impatiently, "Sherlock, she's four months gone. She's known for three months. If she was going to terminate, she'd have done so by now. Molly won't want us to put the baby at risk and the strain on her body… we need to be extremely careful. Besides, didn't we catch the guy from Janus cars partially because he'd used blood that had been frozen?"

"We'd need to take it just before we stage the accident," Sherlock informed his Heart, "Which means she'll need help to get away… hmm…"

He got up from the kitchen table and rummaged in a drawer to find his nicotine patches, his mind withdrawing from the flat and his John entirely as he thought and planned and generally schemed his way towards saving the life of a woman that had once idolised him. The utmost of care would need to be taken, not because he was worried about Molly, but because he wanted John to be proud of him.

At the end of the day, only John's opinion mattered.

**AN – I would like to make it perfectly clear (before people start reviewing) that I am well aware that pregnant women are NOT allowed to give blood. An exception may be made in a medical emergency if the woman in question needs to 'bank' her own blood. There is NO need to tell me that pregnant women can't donate. If you indicate to the blood bank that you are pregnant they will send you away without donating, no contest.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Meeting a Loose End**

Meeting Molly was uncomfortable and slightly unpleasant. She was very wan and kept shooting him Looks – it seemed that she held Sherlock partly responsible for her situation and was definitely looking to him for a solution. Physically, she had let herself go – her hair was lank and her nails bitten. She was wearing rumpled and baggy clothes and hadn't bothered to wear jewellery as she normally did.

Sherlock had promised to be on his very best behaviour. John had warned him before Molly's arrival at the secure location arranged by Mycroft that she was likely to be very sensitive and had to be treated carefully.

"You don't want her to latch onto you as a sort of saviour figure," John had muttered into his ear, "Nor do you want to drive her into blaming you for everything."

"That's illogical," Sherlock had tilted his neck to give John's mouth better access, enjoying the sensation of his Heart chuckling against his skin.

"Yes," John had agreed lightly before returning his attention to their shared kisses: they had been languid and unhurried, not at all arousing, which was good because Sherlock wanted to be able to concentrate.

Molly had taken the news that Moriarty wanted her dead fairly well – she'd cried on John's shoulder and let him assure her that they had a way to protect her, that Sherlock had thought it through very carefully.

"There is some risk involved," Sherlock informed her in a cool voice. He disliked the way she was clutching his John's hand and arm, sitting close and leaning into his side. John was being soothing and supportive and as Sherlock knew that he'd be rubbish at keeping Molly calm and in control of herself, "We'll need to be able to prove that you were in a fatal accident, so we'll need some genetic materials – hair and blood. There is a risk with the blood collection; it will probably knock you out for a bit. The people who are staging the accident for us will take care of you while they're relocating you. You cannot contact anyone from your old life – no family, friends, or colleagues."

"And what will I do once I'm hidden away?" Molly asked in a dreary tone, "Since all I'm good for is to be toyed with by insane geniuses…"

"That's enough, Miss Hooper," John said firmly, "You're an intelligent young woman with a lot to offer. You're about to be a mum and you're being given a chance to start an entirely new life… this is an opportunity of a life time, not a punishment."

Sherlock was pleased to see that John's words were having a positive effect – he'd been about to tell the woman what he really thought of her. That would probably have been Not Good and upset John. Sherlock didn't like it when John was upset: especially when John was upset with him. Molly took a deep breath and nodded, turning to face John and therefore tuning Sherlock out.

"We've set up a new identity for you," John explained, shooting Sherlock an apologetic look, "You'll have a 'trust fund' that pays you a nice monthly dividend and we got you a nice position in a health clinic in Toronto. You won't really need to work, but I thought you might get bored sitting around doing nothing. We've sorted your citizenship out of course and a cover story for why you've moved to Toronto, as well as a new name and all the rest."

"Toronto? That's Canada," Molly breathed, "I've never been out of the country before…"

"Well, now is your chance," John beamed in an encouraging manner, "We've got you a lovely little two bedroom place, with a nice little courtyard garden, in a really secure building. There will be someone keeping an eye on you just until we've eliminated the threat and then you'll be left alone. The trust fund is for life, of course. It's the least we can do."

"And I'll never see you or Sherlock again?"

Sherlock couldn't tell what answer she wanted from that question, but John seemed to understand.

"I'll send you a postcard when the danger is over," he promised, rubbing one of her hands with his, "But you won't see us again. You do understand that you can't return to England and that travelling while you're still in danger is forbidden?"

"Yes," Molly nodded, "It's not like I've got much here anyway… my mother is dead and my father remarried… I haven't any brothers or sisters to worry about me…"

"Then it really is a new start for you. Forget all about us and be happy," Sherlock stated in a quiet voice, not quite happy, but at least not deadpan. Molly shot him a glance and then nodded, turning back to John and hugging him tightly.

"We never really knew each other, but I think I'll miss you most of all," Molly sniffled, "Thank you, John."

John murmured something soothing back and Sherlock summoned the people that would brief her on the accident, her new identity and all the rest of the boring details that he had delegated to Mycroft. The less he and John knew about this the better, just in case they were called in to investigate by Scotland Yard. Of course, they both knew how the accident would be staged, just not how Molly would escape it. The postcard that John had mentioned was already written and sitting in her file in Mycroft's archives, ready to go when Moriarty was finished with. John would never know the address it was sent to.

Sherlock extracted his Heart from Molly's grip and took him away, heading for the secure cab that Mycroft had supplied. He made John sit on the drop down seat, as far away from Sherlock as possible.

"Her scent is on you," Sherlock sniped, "I don't want you near me until it's gone. You're not supposed to cuddle other people, John. It's not right."

"I was comforting her, as any doctor would do for a distressed patient in need of support," John replied crisply, "But I will have a shower when we get home, ok? You can even come in and supervise if you like."

An intriguing offer indeed; one that Sherlock warmed to as the ride progressed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Daylight Robbery**

AN – Red Headed League Alert!

It was not long before Sherlock was informed of Molly's death. He had toyed with the idea of appearing terribly upset by the whole thing, but in the end opted for his usual neutral response. After all, they hadn't been the best of friends to start with, and therefore any _emotional_ response on his part would seem quite false. Also, he felt that John should not be dishonoured by pretending that his relationship with Molly had been more than it was.

In the end, he took his cue from John – who reacted to the news with a sad gravitas that was spot on: even better, it was heartfelt. Lestrade seemed to be more comfortable with that sort of reaction, which helped them maintain their cover. The accident had been a nasty one, involving an explosion with intense heat that had destroyed a lot of evidence. Sherlock blamed it on Moriarty with compunction – after all, the consulting criminal _had_ ordered Molly's death. John seemed amused by that, for reasons that Sherlock was uncertain of. He didn't really care to know either – it was one of those _human_ things that didn't really matter. Sherlock had learned that it was alright to let some of John's puzzles alone – he didn't need to know everything at once.

They would have been very bored, had not a man named Jabez Wilson arrived with an odd story about what any person of normal intelligence would have recognised as a con job. Why should anyone, no matter what colour their hair, want to pay to have useless data copied out for hours at a time? And by hand, no less! Wilson's handwriting would have been quite difficult to read, anyway, as the man had a very tight wrist movement which would have lead to a small, cramped script. Sherlock would have left the man to his own devices, had he not owned a business in the City, quite near to the Bank of England.

Sherlock decided that this needed a closer look, and in the interests of efficiency, combined their trip to the City with a visit to Mycroft's tailor. As the man had 'standards' – for which, read was a terrible snob – it was the perfect opportunity to present his Heart with the shopping from Paris. John had a pair of quite good trousers, which he wore when going out on the town, so Sherlock made a point of laying them out while John was in the shower and then proceeded to lay out the first of the cashmere knitted garments in a nice deep red. He waited by the bed for a few minutes and then decided it would be better to wait downstairs.

He was fidgeting in the kitchen when John came downstairs. Sherlock spent a few long minutes watching his Heart in the mirror over the mantelpiece, pleased with the fit of the jumper and the way the colour suited John's complexion. John seemed a little nervous about the way it looked, but Sherlock approved, which was all that mattered.

"You look quite smart, John," Sherlock caught his Heart's hand and smiled, pressing his lips to the knuckles gently in what had become his favourite way to show John affection, "We'll need to get you some better shoes, though, and I've made an appointment to see the family tailor today."

"Sherlock, I can't afford to buy a suit," John frowned, "Or shoes for that matter. I'm unemployed at the moment, remember?"

"You haven't heard back about those three jobs?" Sherlock frowned, "It's been weeks!"

"We've been busy," John replied, "And I've noticed that the traffic cameras have been stalking me lately."

Sherlock scowled ferociously and huffed, pulling John towards their coats. He bundled his Heart into the new coat that he'd also bought in Paris – dark grey with scarlet lining and black trim, falling to mid thigh – then hurried the man down the stairs before he could protest that this wasn't his coat and that Sherlock didn't need to buy him presents.

"Think of them as work expenses," Sherlock instructed as they climbed into the cab, "You're representing our agency in public, so it behoves you to dress well. As I am the one requiring you to upgrade your wardrobe, it makes sense that I shoulder the financial burden."

He beamed at John in a pleased manner and folded his arms, leaning back in the seat while he waited for John to accept his logic. True, it wasn't a foolproof argument, but it would serve for now. Certainly, his John was having a difficult time countering his argument. Sherlock made sure that his smirk was aimed out the window and watched as the buildings and traffic rushed past. He hadn't forgotten that Mycroft was apparently keeping John from gaining decent employment, and took John's distraction as an opportunity to send a quick text – or threat, depending on how pedantic you wanted to be about it.

"Don't threaten your brother," John said without looking over from his own window, "We need his goodwill, remember?"

"He's stopping you from gaining employment!" Sherlock protested righteously, and John looked over, a crooked grin on his face.

"He probably feels that I should be paying attention to you and Moriarty, instead of job interviews and random members of the public," John muttered, "It's ok, Sherlock. I'm not sure that he's wrong in this case. Distractions are dangerous right now – we can't afford to miss a trick. If I had to work, that would put restrictions on my time..."

"True," Sherlock nodded, "However... I am not unaware of your finances, or desire for independence."

"It's the rent mostly," John confessed in a quiet voice, "I've got a bit put by, so I'm ok for the next few months, but the pension will be stopped soon and at the moment, that's my only source of income."

"I can cover the rent for both of us," Sherlock frowned, "It's the least I can do, especially as its Moriarty's money."

They share a grin and the cab pulls up, so Sherlock pays, getting a quiet laugh from John as he does which makes his chest feel warm, and they climb out to stand in front of the Bank.

As with all banks, it was built to impress those walking past – a sort of 'look at me, I'm wealthy' architecture that balances between ostentatious and privileged. Sherlock hated that sort of architecture – things should be plain and functional in his point of view – but he refrained from commenting, contenting himself with a contemptuous sneer.

"Wilson's business is over there," John murmured, looking at the street behind them in the reflection of the glass facade. Sherlock nodded his approval of the covert technique. Wilson's shop front is understated, situated as it is in a narrow side street. If Sherlock remembered his history correctly, the business had once been a pawn shop, one of many in the area. Now, it was an antique store, polished wood and understated signage. It was not obviously close to the Bank, which made it an ideal staging ground for any underhanded purposes.

Sherlock led John on a ramble through the area, engaging him in conversation that would put any eavesdroppers off their scent. John put up with this quite well, allowing Sherlock to monopolise the conversation and generally obeying his unspoken directions to stand in a certain place or look at a certain thing without requiring a lot of prompting. They passed Wilson's shop once, with Sherlock contriving to drop John's phone on the pavement twice in a quite clumsy move that had John glaring at him in annoyance.

"It's got a huge scuff mark on the back and the screen is cracked now," John complained as they walked away, "Honestly, Sherlock, couldn't you be more careful? The damn phone practically bounced!"

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I don't want my phone damaged," Sherlock replied, "I'll replace it if you insist."

"I've got half a mind to do so," John sulked, quite unattractively, "I suppose you had a good reason for using my phone as a football?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied, "Come along, then. We'll stop and get you a replacement on the way to the tailors. Do you want the same model?"

John sighed and stuffed the phone into a pocket, following along. Sherlock took that as a yes and led the way, musing on the engraving he could get for the back of the phone. Obviously he wasn't going to recreate Clara's message to Harry.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Scotland Yard Shenanigans**

AN – I take liberties with the Bank of England and Conan Doyle's story line in this one...

Lestrade did not appear pleased to see them. The DI was buried in paperwork and had a few shots of Molly's crime scene up on the walls. Sherlock drifted over to look at the data, checking that the Yard was in the dark as to what had really happened. There had been the usual news reports on the accident, but nothing that suggested their ruse was about to be exposed, which was exactly what Sherlock expected.

"Are you here for a reason, or has boredom merely sent you my way?" Lestrade asked sourly. A small and distant part of Sherlock mourned the loss of the man's good opinion, though the consulting genius did his best to ignore it. Lestrade had believed in him when the rest of the world thought him a nutter, so this distance in their relationship was not ideal. John also disliked it, but would not discuss it with Sherlock, becoming tight lipped when pressed.

"I've come to alert you to a bank robbery," Sherlock threw himself into the 'visitors' chair and folded his arms, glaring at Lestrade in challenge. This was the first time he'd tried to get the older man to listen to one of his 'hunches' since the 'job offer' and he wasn't too sure that the Yarder would listen.

"Where and when and who?" Lestrade sounded tired, but he picked up a pen to take notes, "And how did you come by this information?"

Unspoken was the question about Moriarty's involvement in this crime, which Sherlock knew was non-existent. This was the operation of one John Clay – a clever man with royal connections who could have been on par with Sherlock and Moriarty had he spent more time improving his mind and less considering a range of criminal pursuits. As it was, Moriarty would not object to Sherlock getting the man locked up.

"A client came to me about a con job that he'd been caught in," Sherlock sniffed, "He's no genius, so it shouldn't surprise me that he fell for it, really. His business is located in a prime position for the criminals involved, who contrived to get him out of the way in order to dig a tunnel."

"A tunnel," Lestrade wiped a hand over his face, "They're _tunnelling_ into this bank. Of all the things they could have done, with today's modern technology, their choice of attack is to dig a tunnel."

"Into the Bank of England," Sherlock confirmed, "Or to be more accurate some old vaults in the Bank that no longer appear on the blue prints and contain old currency. To be precise, old currency that is damaged and therefore due to be destroyed: a large depository of untraceable bank notes."

"The perfect target," Lestrade groaned, "We've been hearing about someone going for the perfect target – a crime that not only would never be traced, it was unlikely that it would ever be noticed. We've been hitting the snouts, but so far nothing has come to light – nothing concrete, anyway."

"Ta-dah," Sherlock flung his arms apart, like a magician performing a trick. Lestrade glared weakly and John muffled an amused noise behind him, a perfect pair of responses. Having made his point, Sherlock leaned forward and began briefing Lestrade on the particulars of the crime, as well as how he wished to apprehend the criminals. The door opened after thirty minutes of planning and light debate and Sally stuck her head in, scowling at Sherlock in a distinctly hostile manner.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked, the question a calculated insult. In the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John stiffen and stand up from where he'd been leaning on the wall near the DI's desk.

"What are you implying, Donovan?" John's voice was cold and hard, "Are you trying to say that Sherlock is a threat to the DI? That we're holding him in his office against his will: because if you're implying that, then we have a serious problem. One that I for one am not interested in resolving. Sherlock and I can just leave and you can attempt to solve the crime we've brought to your attention without our assistance."

"Dr Watson," Lestrade stood, "I apologise for Donovan's lack of manners and common sense. Donovan, unless you have a good reason to be here, I suggest you leave at once. We'll discuss your behaviour later."

Looking as if she'd swallowed a hairbrush, Donovan pulled her head out of the office and shut the door behind her. John slowly returned to his slouched posture against the wall. It was deceptive in its languor, something that Sherlock unexpectedly appreciated. He'd never _needed_ protection from the people he dealt with, but having it offered by someone he respected, someone who respected _him_ made him feel unexpectedly pleasant.

Putting the feeling aside for the moment, Sherlock continued to plan with Lestrade, acting as if nothing had happened. It was a trick that he had observed made people feel uncomfortable. People thought it was polite or nice to keep apologising for awkward scenes, which Sherlock felt was a waste of time and stupid. If Lestrade was off balance, then Sherlock would be able to get his own way when it came to working out who went where and did what.

John chimed in from time to time, offering his expertise in capture and evasion from the army. He raised several good points and managed to break a stalemate when Sherlock couldn't get Lestrade to understand what he wanted to do. In short, his Heart proved once more that his worth to Sherlock's agency was not to be underestimated.

And as far as Sherlock was concerned, that was almost as valuable as his physical protection.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Night Time Shenanigans**

Sherlock had insisted that he and John both be present for the capture of John Clay and his fellow moles. After all, if it hadn't been for him, Scotland Yard would never have managed to stop the 'perfect crime' before it occurred.

"Perfect crime – if that isn't an indication of Clay's monstrous ego, then nothing is," Sherlock mumbled into John's neck as they waited. It was pitch dark in the disused cellars, which meant he was free to spoon up behind John and nuzzle him at will. No one could see them and as long as John was quiet, it would not be noticed.

It was oddly interesting to be doing this in a semi public venue. There was the tension of waiting for their prey to surface, something that Sherlock enjoyed for short periods of time (too long and he got bored, which was something of a dichotomy.) There was the tension of not being caught, which he knew that John in particular was keen to avoid. Then there was the tension of being protected. His Heart was watching for their prey, with the firm belief that he would get between any danger and Sherlock _first_.

"Hmm, a clever man with a big ego, how unprecedented," John whispered back, his voice a bare breath in the air. Sherlock nipped his earlobe in response to the tease, pleased that his partner could say such things without being offensive or banal. John jumped and then dug an elbow gently in Sherlock's side, careful not to escalate things beyond their ability to conceal at this point in time.

"Mycroft sent me a text this afternoon," Sherlock chose to leave that line of conversation for now, "He congratulated me."

"I suppose he saw the ring," John sighed softly, delighting Sherlock with his deduction. Mycroft had indeed seen the ring and drawn the correct assumptions from it. Sherlock and John were going to be together for the rest of their lives, something that boggled the mind and reassured simultaneously. Sherlock had always thought that he was going to be alone for the rest of his life, something that was perfectly fine, by the way. Or at least it had been. He couldn't imagine being fine and alone now. John had changed that for him.

"You're a Holmes now," Sherlock took great pleasure in breathing that into the ear he'd been nibbling and was delighted when his Heart's weight came back against him fully. He tightened his grip carefully, holding John up on his feet for a long moment before nudging him back upright.

"That means everything to me," John confessed. They stood together in silence for a long moment, simply waiting together for their prey to arrive. A slight noise alerted Sherlock that things were about to happen, and judging by the different tension in John – ready and coiled – his partner had heard the noises as well.

It was another fifteen minutes before the first rays of light from the 'moles' broke through the old flagstones on the floor. As the vaulted space around them lightened, Sherlock forced his eyes to adapt by blinking rapidly. John's hand took up his gun and his right arm came up to wrap around Sherlock's waist, holding him in place with iron determination. Sherlock hadn't anticipated this and wasn't sure that he liked being held still – he wanted to be out the front, capturing their prey and preventing the Yard from messing the plan up.

Fortunately for the peace of their partnership, Scotland Yard got it right for once, waiting until Clay and his two associates climbed out of their hole and were far enough away to be cut off by a very efficient pincer movement. There was a confused moment when everyone was shouting, highlighted by a glint of steel in Clay's pale hand, but John's gun barked once and the knife went spinning into the darkness, convincing Clay to drop to his knees and raise his hands above his head.

"Well, that was… anticlimactic," Sherlock pouted as Lestrade began directing the mopping up, sending a man down through the tunnel just in case someone had slipped away and alerting his people at Wilson's store that the bust had been made.

"Oh Sherlock," John sounded amused, "What did you think would happen?"

Sherlock sniffed in irritation and tugged John out of the cellars, heading for street level and a cab home.

"A chase would have at least been entertaining," he complained, one hand buried in John's pocket, "Or a fist fight."

"I can think of better ways to entertain you," John promised and Sherlock cheered up at once. When all was said and done, John was much better than Clay-the-criminal.

"I warn you, I have high expectations," Sherlock said loftily as they wound through the empty building. John's chuckle was darkly promising.

"You always do," was the easy reply and Sherlock beamed in the darkness.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**Beginning of the End**

Moriarty was waiting in the flat when they got back from the Bank. Sherlock was not pleased – John would not enter into intimacies with Moriarty pleasant and would likely not be in the mood to do so when the man left either.

The consulting criminal was sitting in his Heart's armchair, reading through John's blog. They had agreed that the blog would stay up as a double blind to distract Moriarty from what they were really doing. John had proven to be remarkably capable at subtle double entendres, something that they had played with in a more intimate setting.

"Good morning, boys!" Moriarty giggled from the armchair, "I've just been catching up with your Pet's blog."

John said nothing, not even bothering to protest Moriarty's name calling, choosing instead to go stand in the kitchen doorway, his hands clasped in front of him in a stance that Sherlock would have thought formal if not for the gun hidden in John's waistband. With his hands like that he could get to the weapon quickly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his 'guest' and went to lean on the mantelpiece beside his skull.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" it was best to at least attempt pleasantries with Moriarty – the man was supposed to be his employer after all. He noted with interest the remnants of injuries from the Pool – broken bones and one nasty slice, probably caused by shards of tile flung into the air by the bomb blast. Moriarty was not as 'at ease' as he wanted them to think.

"I came to see how you were doing, Sherlock, to touch base with my newest employee, as it were," Moriarty drawled, "Think of this as your three month employment review."

"How very... corporate," Sherlock sighed, not having to feign the boredom. He noted the flash of annoyance in Moriarty's eyes with glee – anything that discomforted the other man was acceptable to Sherlock.

"And how is your dear landlady?" Moriarty's voice took on a sly tone, "She's a real treasure, isn't she?"

John stiffened in the doorway where he stood and shot Sherlock a look, but made no other reaction. Sherlock debated for a moment and then signalled for John to stay where he was – it was too obvious a barb to be serious.

"Yes, she is," Sherlock replied coolly, "I suppose you're aware of John Clay's arrest?"

"Hmm," Moriarty nodded, "Pity. I had plans for him. Plus I wanted to see if he could resist the temptation of repeating the crime. You rather spoiled my fun there. Now I'll have to think of something else to do."

Sherlock could almost read John's thoughts: something along the lines of 'my heart bleeds' accompanied by a series of profanities. He quirked an eyebrow at his partner in admonishment and then looked back at his 'guest'.

"What, precisely, would you like to take Clay's place?" he asked, certain that Moriarty was about to make some outrageous request. This could well be John's breaking point here, though they had discussed what to do if Moriarty crossed John's boundaries.

"Well, now," Moriarty purred, "I did have something in mind – but not here, I'm afraid. Travel would be required to complete my little task and Pets are not allowed."

"John," Sherlock made his tone a dismissal and the army veteran huffed, playing his role perfectly as he left the room, offense radiating in every line of his back. Moriarty chuckled, amused by the situation, but Sherlock gave him such a pointed look that the topic was dropped.

"I want you to see to a little network that I'm establishing in Europe," Moriarty purred, dropping John's laptop carelessly to the floor and standing, "Be my eyes and ears as it were. I'll have my actual front man in play of course, but I want your opinion. It may well be time for a corporate shake-up: I'd _so_ love to have you working more closely with me."

"Well, why not?" Sherlock shrugged, "I've been meaning to travel."

"Fabulous!" Moriarty clapped his hands in glee, "I've got the details all here for you... of course, I should warn you that if dear Sebastian catches sight of you he will be very annoyed – possibly murderous."

"Very well," Sherlock shrugged, "It's nothing to me."

Moriarty gave him a final smirk and kicked John's computer out of the way, cracking the lid as he did so. Sherlock spared a fleeting thought for John's reaction to this latest act of vandalism and then concentrated on the matter at hand.

On the face of it, Moriarty was simply tightening and redistributing his overseas network of informants, assassins and hired thugs of varying ability. If one looked beyond the obvious however, it was clear that a shake-up was in effect and that some of the redundant parts of the network were about to find themselves dead. 'Dear Sebastian' was a former Colonel and sharp shooter, more than capable of killing off unwanted or obsolete assets.

The implications, though... Sherlock would need to devote weeks, possibly months to this – it was the way into Moriarty's enterprise that they had been seeking. With the information, not to mention informants, that Sherlock was about to gain access to, he would be able to cripple Moriarty once and for all: provided of course that he survived the attempt. Sherlock had no doubt that Sebastian Moran was aware of Moriarty's little plan. The thin genius had no idea what Moran had done to earn Moriarty's displeasure, but the Colonel obviously had to catch and kill Sherlock to regain it.

The moment the criminal mastermind was out the front door, Sherlock searched the flat from top to bottom, finding and disabling the three 'bugs' that had been installed, as well as deactivating a rather nasty acid trap that had been rigged in John's wardrobe. John was downstairs with Mrs Hudson – he had watched the criminal leave their home before returning to their landlady's flat, giving Sherlock an unreadable look as he did so.

Once he was certain that the flat was clean of surveillance, Sherlock trotted downstairs to retrieve John. His Heart would not like the upcoming separation, but they had little to no choice in the matter: it would be completely impossible to take John with him, partially because it meant that Mrs Hudson would be left undefended. Sherlock had attempted to come up with several compelling arguments for their upcoming separation, but knew that whatever he said, his Heart would fret while they were apart.

"Bloody hell!" John exclaimed as he caught sight of his vandalised laptop, positioned just so for maximum effect, "That wanker!"

"Sorry, my Heart," Sherlock murmured, "I'll replace it, of course."

"That's not the point, Sherlock," John said wearily, "It's about you being gone and me being left behind – the laptop can be replaced. _You_ can't!"

"Nor can you," Sherlock pulled his John into his arms, burying his face in John's neck, "But we agreed that we would see this through to the end – we knew it may come to some distasteful actions."

John growled inarticulately and held on tight, resisting the upcoming separation in a most illogical manner. They would need to plan the safety of those that lived in 221B and John's work situation, but Sherlock knew that was not at the top of John's concerns either.

"You'd better not get yourself killed, you hear me? And you'd better come back," was all his Heart said on the matter, and then they were peeling away from each other and getting the laptop and John's files out, updating them together for the last time.

Sherlock wouldn't see his Heart for another three years.

AN – I KNOW!


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.**

**The End of the End**

In order to properly destroy Moriarty's network, Sherlock quickly discovered that he would need to take the place of Sebastian Moran – not as Sherlock Holmes, but as Moran himself. It would not be difficult to replicate the man physically, or indeed to replicate him electronically, which was how he was keeping in contact with Moriarty, so Sherlock spent the first three months away from his Heart studying his opponent intently.

It did not take him long to discover that Moriarty thought of Moran as 'his Doctor Watson', which was incredibly ludicrous. The two men were nothing alike – physically, mentally or personality: all were different. Moran was a soldier, as was John, but that was as far as their similarities went. Moran was violent, prone to blood lust, smart but not intelligent, obedient to directions from his 'commander' and tended to over react to setbacks. John's violence was carefully controlled; he neither liked nor disliked killing and fighting, was clever but not brilliant, was as likely to disobey Sherlock as to obey him in any given situation, and always took the most extraordinary events in his stride. He was superior to Moran in every way because he had empathy but not a bleeding heart, a seemingly bottomless well of patience, and had the annoying strength of personality to stand up to Sherlock when he was being outrageous.

After three months of careful sabotage and observation, Sherlock disposed of Moran in such as way as to be untraceable. With Mycroft's help, he locked the former Colonel up in an asylum that housed some of the more dangerous and 'untouchable' criminals of the world. Once you went in there, you never came out and the life expectancy of an inmate was not particularly long. As many of the inmates had committed genocide and war crimes of unspeakable depravity, that was no loss to the world at large.

Moriarty did not suspect the change. Sherlock was sure of that. The master criminal had never had the same bond that Sherlock did with his Doctor Watson, and so never noticed that Moran had been neutralised. Sherlock found the dual identity a great help in mapping and tagging Moriarty's overseas network – any setbacks on the part of Moran, Sherlock could blame on himself and vice versa. Had he not been a genius, things would have gotten very confusing.

Even so, he was unhappy that it took him three years to complete his task. He sent John memory sticks with crucial information in them – smuggling them back in such a way that not even Mycroft knew they existed – but there was no contact with John at all. Sherlock had no idea what his Heart was doing, how he was faring without the spice of danger in his life that Sherlock's cases had offered him. Had his limp returned? Did he still sleep in Sherlock's bed or had he returned to his own room? Had he taken a job – and if so, was it one of the ones that Sherlock had chosen for him or something else altogether? These questions occurred in the few moments of downtime that Sherlock had: it annoyed him not to have the answers at his fingertips.

Mycroft kept track of Sherlock of course, funnelling funds and information his way when he could. He did not deign to inform Sherlock of his Heart's status; though Sherlock had no doubt that his older brother was keeping 'tabs' on John.

At one point, twenty six months into their separation, Sherlock missed his Heart so badly that he slipped into a little tattoo parlour he had spotted while impersonating Moran in a café and had a set of initials engraved over his physical heart. Small and plain, they stood as a visual reminder against his pale skin. He covered them carefully of course, beneath a patch of synthetic skin, but he knew they were there, which helped in an odd sort of way. What John would say about them was another matter entirely: Sherlock was completely unable to predict that reaction and looked forward to finding out.

And then suddenly he was terribly busy. It was not difficult to make it appear to Moriarty that Colonel Moran was betraying him, nor was it difficult to get Interpol's assistance in taking the criminal network apart. He'd been able to get enough information to John to warn him that the 'take down' – as one Interpol agent insisted on calling the operation – was about to occur, which meant that John would present a copy of his information to Scotland Yard. The Yard would be able, with some assistance from Mycroft's people, to capture Moriarty, after which Sherlock could come home.

Thus it was a very nasty shock to hear that things had not gone well in England. After two months of constant activity and strain, hearing that Moriarty had escaped the Yard's web at the very last moment was almost enough to make Sherlock homicidal. He knew full well that John would be Moriarty's sole target now – his Heart was alone in London, completely vulnerable to the criminal master minds attacks. With everything he had worked for destroyed, it was hard to predict what Moriarty would do – he could destroy 221B with Mrs Hudson and John inside, or kidnap John and torture him to death, or simply shoot John through a window or as he stepped outside…

Sherlock was on the move at once, though it would unfortunately take him twenty four hours to reach England from where he was – the connections and sheer distance were all against him – sending strict instructions ahead to his brother to secure his John and Mrs Hudson against all dangers _at once_. He didn't wait for confirmation, taking the most insane route across the world instead, making connections by the skin of his teeth in an effort to get home sooner. His time away from John had at least taught him the importance of sleeping when one could, which had the added benefit of appearing to make time go faster. It had been a difficult discipline to master, but it stood him in good stead now.

Just as he set foot in France, Mycroft contacted him once more, to say that Moriarty had been killed, that there was a private plane waiting for him and that Mrs Hudson and 221B were unharmed. John had taken a flesh wound to the right leg and would be 'fine' – the most useless description of an injury that Sherlock had ever been displeased to hear: of course it was a flesh wound – a _paper cut_ was a flesh wound after all… Further information indicated that Moriarty _had_ made an attempt to shoot John, but his Heart had laid a quite good trap of his own. He'd been shot when a careless, soon to be closely investigated and unemployed, constable had let loose of the criminal mastermind before he was properly restrained. John had shot Moriarty dead in self-defence, in front of several members of the Yard.

Barely had the small plane set down, than Sherlock was on the move. It was a private airstrip, which meant he didn't need to deal with customs and their official nonsense. Getting arrested for punching a passport inspector in the nose was not what Sherlock wanted to be doing, something that Mycroft had no doubt anticipated. He was in an unmarked car and on his way to Baker Street in moments. Fortunately, the driver had the sense to avoid the main motorways, showing a good knowledge of how to get through central London while avoiding the worst of the traffic.

His front door had never looked so good and Sherlock was out of the car almost before it had stopped, fishing for his house key, which he'd kept safe for three long years. It was midnight, so Mrs Hudson would be asleep, but John was up, or at least in the front room, because there was a light on in there. Sherlock took the stairs four at a time, bounding across the landing and into the front room in a breathless rush, coming to a halt as John levered himself up from his armchair, pushing aside the blanket that had been draped over his lap.

He was thinner than he had been when Sherlock had left Baker Street – so his appetite had diminished with their separation: Mrs Hudson did what she could, as indicated by the homemade biscuits beside John's cold cup of tea. His Heart was employed in the same ER that had treated his wound, but also by the Coroners Office, which Sherlock had not expected. One of those jobs would have to go, but he'd let John make the choice as he was unsure which job his Heart preferred. His sister had passed away twenty four months ago, her picture was on the mantle: Sherlock made a note to say something supportive about that…

"Hello Sherlock," John's voice interrupted his thoughts, as warm and pleasant as always. He had crossed the front room while Sherlock deduced, limping slightly in deference to the wound that pulled beneath its dressing to stand in front of Sherlock, a smile lighting his eyes. On his little finger, the Vernet ring gleamed in the low light. It had been cleaned regularly, by John himself, all the indications were there to see. Sherlock's heart raced in his chest at the sight.

Sherlock reached out, his hands tingling in anticipation, and stroked his fingers over his John's cheeks, then his palms, pressing lightly. That simple contact rushed over his body in a wave, waking his skin in a way he'd never thought possible. He'd had no desire for physical, intimate contact with others for the last three years – all he'd wanted was the man now in front of him, the man leaning into his touch, his own hands coming up to rest comfortably on Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock bent his head slowly and pressed their foreheads together, letting John's breath wash over his skin. He could _smell_ John, that indescribable scent that meant home and comfort to him. Three years, six months and four days ago, Sherlock had first declared to his John that kissing was unhygienic and disgusting. He had since learned that kissing another's skin could be very rewarding indeed – and that John's taste and texture was extremely desirable. However there had always been a stopping point, a line that Sherlock was unwilling to cross. With John in front of him now after three long years of separation, no barriers could be tolerated.

Taking a slow breath, Sherlock used his grip on John's head to tip his face up slightly and then pressed their lips together. A moment of warm pressure and then John parted his lips for Sherlock, allowing him access to the moist cavern of his mouth. Taste exploded across Sherlock's tongue, something that was different to John's scent but complimentary. John sucked lightly on Sherlock's questing tongue, tearing a moan from him in reflex. Sensation rocketed through Sherlock, overwhelming and exciting. Beneath his shirt, he could feel the weight of his tattoo – John's initials intertwined on his flesh – in a way he'd never experienced before. It was as if having the man in front of him had somehow awakened the nerve endings beneath the tattoo.

When the need for air overrode his need to explore this new heady combination of taste and touch and pleasure, Sherlock drew back reluctantly, looking intently into John's face, wanting to see that the other man felt as he did still. There was wonder there, desire of course, but the overwhelming expression could only ever be labelled as _joy_.

"Hello my Heart," Sherlock murmured and took a deep breath for the first time in three years.

END


End file.
